The Mask and the Mirror
by ModestySparrow9
Summary: (ErikOC) Claire is alone in the world until she meets Erik; the man who offers her everything and brings love back to her life. But can she take it knowing she's puting both their lives at risk? Plz R&R!
1. The Lost Voice

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything except my original characters and my little 'sub plot', though I wish I did, especially Erik cuz he's the coolest. **

**Summary: Basically, Christine isn't worthy of Erik so I've made my own character whom will be taking her place. Claire is a young woman void of the spotlight. All she wants to do is sing, but her father forbids it. Under chance circumstances she befriends a mysterious Phantom who frees the voice within her. As their friendship blooms, Claire finds herself caught in a sassy love triangle, a selfish plot, and a romance that will remembered by all who lived in its times… **

**Note: Hello everyone, this is Modesty. I hope you enjoy this story a lot because I'm putting a lot of effort into it. It's only my second fanfic, so…yeah. Please review- I love reviews…they make my day. Compliments and criticisms are welcome as long as they are constructive. If you review any of my work, I will try to read and review yours as well. Anyway…here's my story and enjoy! **

**PS: If you have the soundtrack, I recommend that you listen to it while you read, especially the parts with the actual songs (or my own versions of them). **

**The Mask and the Mirror **

**Chapter One: The Lost Voice **

Her smile dawned of a trustable hope, as Claire Bonamy's gaze glided across the massive stage of the Opera Populaire. Her hazel eyes open wide; she couldn't believe the brilliance and gallantry of the theatre.

A woman stood on the stage, belting out beautiful music to a song Claire did not know; she was obviously rehearsing. The stage was cluttered with people, dressed in elaborate costumes, preparing to rehearse their own roles.

_Carlotta_, Claire thought, grinning. Of course, she recognized the famed Prima Dona, Carlotta.

Claire noticed her father, Monsieur Andre Bonamy tread his way onto the stage, just as Carlotta's singing came to an end. Claire turned her head, hearing two maids cleaning seats, snicker and mock the famed singer.

When they noticed Claire standing within earshot, they shut their mouths abruptly, returning to their work. Claire, however, did not scold. She had heard rumors of Carlotta's dramatics and her constant desire for attention.

The former theatre owner's voice trailed off in the distance as he formally, and with great relief, introduced Claire's father as the new theatre owner. She felt a strange sensation that she was being watched, but when she looked around, she found no one.

Claire quickly skipped off towards the stage, and as she climbed the side steps, her father announced, "And this is Claire- my lovely daughter."

Claire blushed, smiling at everyone on the stage. Almost all seemed to be happy to meet her; except a select few, including Carlotta who retained a face of utter disgust. She was holding a pompous white poodle in her arms.

"Pleasure to meet you," said one of the dancers, approaching Claire. She bowed, "I am Adeline. Welcome to the theatre."

"Thank you," Claire nodded with a smile.

Adeline seemed about Claire's age- in her early twenties, and she, just like Claire had dark brown hair. "Do you like the theatre?" Adeline asked, whisking Claire out of the spotlight, which she could tell Claire seemed shy of.

"Oh, I love the theatre," said Claire. "My family has been involved with several over the years; I've grown up around the stage."

"Do you ever perform?" asked another dancer, whose name was Emily.

Claire's bright smile faded. "No," she said, disappointed.

"Why?" asked the dancer, stunned. "You shouldn't be shy."

"Oh, it's not just that," Claire blushed. "My father…he-"

"Look!" someone shouted, interrupted her. "He has left a letter."

Claire turned to face her father as he picked up the letter from the stage floor; it had fallen there, from above.

"What is this?" he asked.

"The Phantom's first letter," said someone in the startled crowd. "He's here- watching."

Andre chuckled to himself, not hearing the comment. "Well, these orders are absurd! Who did this? Come on, now," he looked around, raising the letter up high so all could see. "Show yourself. I expect this is a prank for the theatre's new owner?" he looked around again, but all faces were cold and blank. "Who wrote this letter?"

"The Phantom," whispered the dance instructor, Madame Giry. "He bids you welcome."

"He says here," Andre pointed to a spot in the letter, "that he welcomes me to _his_ theatre!" He seemed to be the only one amused. "Alright then, Phantom," Andre joked, not believing any of it for a moment. "I'll do as you ask- for now." He only thought it a simple and harmless joke; someone testing his will, no doubt.

There was an awkward silence for some time, which was suddenly interrupted by Carlotta's exasperated whining. "No, no, no, no," she repeated over, and over. "No more of this! No more ghost man! I must go now- goodbye," she strutted towards back stage.

"Please," Monsieur Bonamy followed after her. "Madame Carlotta, what can I do to convince you to stay?"

"Nothing!" Carlotta stopped and turned to him. "I am done with this theatre! Too many strange things happening- goodbye!" she waved him off, turning on her heels.

"Oh, not again," a stage hand cried.

Claire couldn't hide her small smile. So the rumors about Carlotta were true, she thought.

Carlotta stalked off, waiting for the new manager to beg her some more; but to her surprise, Andre did no such thing. In all his years working in the theatre, he had learned how to deal with these sorts long before.

"Stop her!" someone shouted. "We need her for the opera!"

"Let her go," Andre sighed. "Perhaps she will return."

Everyone on the stage, except Claire seemed surprised. "You do indeed have an understudy?" Andre asked a thin woman dressed in black.

"No, Monsieur," Madame Giry said.

"What? Very well then," Andre scratched his balding head for thought. "Well, how far along are we in the production?"

"We've done all rehearsing out of sequence," the stage manager, Audric, stated. "And we've been rehearsing for almost three weeks now."

"Well, with no understudy," Andre began. "We'll have to cast another Prima Dona. Who here can sing?" he looked around, but the faces of the performers were placid and blank.

"Father, I can," Claire stepped forward. "Let me sing- or at least audition for the role. Please!"

"No, Claire," her father began. "You will not be a part of this musical. Is there anyone else who can lend us a voice here?" he asked again, losing his patience. "There must be someone."

"Not with the lung capacity and talents of Carlotta," said one of the dancers.

"Father; please…" Claire begged; but before he could respond, Carlotta was back, followed by a handful of personal servants, one now holding her poodle.

"Let the girl sing!" she shouted. "Let's see how grand this _Claire_ truly is if she thinks she can belittle me!" she raised her chin along with her voice.

"No," Andre began to say.

More people joined in the argument, the dance instructor trying to convince André to let his daughter at least audition. All the noise and commotion was almost unbearable to Claire.

"Stop!" she called, and when no one listened, she came to her last resort; she began to sing.

"_No turning back now_

_Past the point of no return _

_Make your decision _

_Your love I have earned _

_A devotion so complete_

_Your face so discrete _

_The masquerade is over _

_I see the man in the beast _

_These games are over _

_The truth be told _

_I will live with you in darkness _

_Till I be feeble and old _

_No turning back now _

_I do not expect _

_To leave my past above me _

_As time rolls on _

_I know you will love me _

_And thinking of those _

_I know now and before _

_I know I can leave them_

_Where's the dark door? _

_I wish you could see more of day _

_I won't watch you grow and decay _

_I come only to help you to love and to learn _

_Past this point of no return" _

The cast and crew on the stage were silent in amazement; not only for her miraculous voice, but her sudden outburst. Claire was amazed herself; she knew not where the words came from, for she'd never heard them once before. They just seem to appear in her mind, as well as the beautiful melody.

"Why not let the girl sing?" came a man's deep voice from somewhere off stage- though Claire could not see who had said it.

"Yes, Father, please! I can do this."

"I've already told you," Andre said to her. "You will not be performing- especially singing!"

Claire frowned; this wasn't the first occasion which she'd been denied by her own father. She knew why he asked her not to sing, but she thought the reason was cruel.

"I'll do it," said one of the dancers, stepping forward. "I have some experience with singing."

"All right then- do you know the parts?" asked Andre. The girl nodded, a little nervous. "Let's rehearse this from the top. Come now," he beckoned as those on stage scurried and scuttled to their places, on or off stage. "Let's see what we've got here."

"Come with me," said Adeline, dragging Claire off stage. "What an amazing voice you have," she complimented.

"Thank you," Claire still frowned, though she greatly enjoyed the compliment.

"Why won't your father let you sing?" Adeline whispered.

"Well, after my mother died…my mother was a singer and an actress, you see," Claire began. "And after she died, my father stayed away from the theatre. That's where he met her. He just doesn't like to see me doing what she loved to do. It reminds him too much of her, and he can't take it. He forbids me to sing, saying it hurt him too much- which I find ridiculous, really."

"Of course," Adeline agreed with a nod. Little did either girl realize, they were being watched from behind.

"Father even canceled meetings I had with my opera tutor," Claire sighed. "I miss her."

"Do you ever sing?" Adeline asked, curiously.

"Not n Father's presence," Claire said solemnly. "It's horrible; I'd compare it to not being able to breathe. Oh, how I wish I could sing again. But it's been so long since I've been in a performance," she lowered her head in embarrassment. "I don't know if I could bring myself to sing in front of a crowd- though I thought I might get a chance to prove myself tonight. I suppose I thought wrong."

"Someday your father will see, I'm sure," comforted Adeline, whom Claire was learning was a very friendly person.

Then Emily came over. "I'm Emily, by the way," she announced to Claire.

"SHH!" the dance teacher admonished. Emily flinched.

"Oh, time to go," she said. "That's our cue." She and Adeline suddenly left Claire alone on the wing of the stage.

Claire curiously peeked through the ruby red curtain to watch the rehearsal. The singing dancer was good, she thought, but she still wished she could be up on stage instead.

Again, Claire could sense something strange behind her. She suddenly turned, seeing nothing but pitch darkness.

**I hope you all liked it. Please review. The next chapter should come in about a week or so. Remember to review please! Thanks **


	2. The Mask of Gold

**A/N: Thanks SO much for the wonderful reviews! I'm happy to say, that I saw the movie for the second time yesterday, so I now have some splendid ideas for the story. Gerard Butler 'wows' me every time. He's such an amazing actor, and his voice is beautiful. I get shivers when I hear him sing sometimes!! Anyways, here's the latest chapter. I hope you all like it. Remember to please review. Thanks a lot! Also, since this is finals week, I've got lots of homework to do, and I'm rewriting a bunch of chapters to make them better, so I'll probably update in about a week or so. Thanks for your patience. **

**Doomed Delight: Lol, I'm glad you thought the chapter was ok. **

**Gerfan: Yeah, Gerry's awesome. Have you seen him in Timeline? Tehe…I have! **

**Lisa Citron: Yay! I'm glad you like it, and I'm glad you like Claire! **

**Chapter Two: The Mask of Gold **

Claire soon grew bored with the play. They'd been rehearsing the same scene over and over and still the director seemed unimpressed. "From the top!" he'd cry repeatedly.

His old raspy voice grew hoarse in Claire's ears. She glanced at the roomy area around her. Her father owned this theatre now, and she had every right to explore it, she thought with a grin.

While the dancers were busy twisting and turning on stage, Claire carefully and quietly slipped away, unnoticed.

As she explored backstage, she soon found herself in the prop room of the theatre. It was packed with delightful and wonderful things.

Wooden swords and pistols, kitchenware and rubber food lay sprawled about three long tables. On one table there was a great selection of masks. Big masks, small masks, colorful ones, and white ones, with all elaborate designs and markings upon them. There seemed to be a half of a table entirely devoted to them.

Claire grinned, picking one out in particular. She picked it up in her hands. The mask shimmered with golden sparkles. Lying just beside it, there was a small hand held mirror.

Claire placed the mask on her face, looking at her reflection in the mirror. She looked awfully silly in it, but she thought it was fun to wear, though it only covered one side of her face.

As she shifted the mirror from left to right to see her reflection from a better angle, she thought she saw something behind her. Something white flashed behind her.

Startled, she gasped, dropping the mirror and the mask to the floor. She turned around swiftly, backing into the table. "Who's there?" she called out. There was no answer.

She thought she saw the shimmer of white disappear behind a giant painting that rested against the wall; she warily stepped closer to it. "Claire?" she heard her father call from the entrance to the room. Claire jumped, startled.

"Father," she sighed in relief.

"Claire, you shouldn't wander," her father scolded. "Come; rehearsals are almost over for the day. Aren't you ready to go home? I'll have the new maid cook us a nice warm dinner."

"Of course," Claire said, placing a trembling hand on her fluttering stomach. "I _do_ feel parched of food."

Just before she exited the prop room, Claire glanced back at the painting- nothing. But the room was not empty.

A tall man, cloaked in black with a white mask upon his face kneeled down beside the mirror and golden mask that had fallen to the floor. "Who is this?" he said quietly to himself. "Who is this child of the Lost Voice?" he picked up the mask and the mirror, handling the objects with care.

Then the Phantom of the Opera walked over to the wall behind the painting, and disappeared behind it.

Claire sat down eagerly at the long dining table. The room was nearly empty beside the select few chairs and dinner plates on the table; she and her father had not yet finished unpacking.

Andre Bonamy sat at the head of the table, looking quite pleased at the steaming meal that was sitting in front of him. The maid placed it there, and then placed a similar plate with food before Claire.

"Thank you, Margaret," Claire said.

The maid nodded, not uttering a single word, and headed back toward the kitchen.

After a few minutes of unbearable silence, Claire asked her father, "How were rehearsals today?"

"They went very well I think," he said, dabbing his lips with his white napkin. "Did you enjoy your exploration of the prop room?"

Claire smiled. "Actually, I found several interesting items in there."

"Oh, really?" Andre asked.

"Yes," Claire lifted her silver fork to her mouth, tasting the plump turkey on its base.

Flickering lights from the table candles danced gracefully, softening the mood for dinner, and calming Claire's anger at her father. She knew she'd forgive him for not letting her perform; she'd come to accept his denial long ago. Though, every once and a while, she thought she should try her luck, but to no avail. He never could be convinced to let her sing.

Andre chuckled to himself. "Did you find any interesting _phantoms_ while on your rounds?" he teased.

"Phantoms?" Claire asked, startled. That couldn't have been what she saw; was it?

"Ahh, it's an old legend. He seems to have a long history with the theatre. He's apparently lived there as long as anyone can remember," Claire could tell by her father's tone that he thought it all complete and utter nonsense.

Claire bit the side of her cheek, and a sudden chill rippled down her spine as he said this. "Well, I didn't mean to scare you," her father joked. "Goodness, Claire, you like as if you've seen a ghost!"

"I have not!" she quickly argued, as if denying something terrible.

Margaret eyed her suspiciously as she placed a new bowl of steaming rolls at the end of the table, near Claire.

"Thank you," Claire said again. "This is a pleasant meal, don't you think Father?"

"Oh, yes, yes, of course," Andre agreed.

"Oh, and speaking of pleasant things," her father continued, a slight twinkling in his eye. "I met the loveliest woman in the square today."

"Oh, did you?"

"Yes," he repeated. "Madame…Asthore, I believe; and her son, Aubrey. He's just a few years you're senior," Claire didn't seem o care much. Nonetheless, her father continued. "And I'm sure I will visit them again, in the square."

"Really?" Claire seemed a little surprised. "Well, I'm glad you're getting acquainted with people so fast." Her father had not mentioned a single woman in this manner since her mother died.

"Well, she seemed nice enough, and she told me a little about the city. I thought it was awfully kind of her."

"And it was," Claire still was stunned, though she hid it well. Her father seemed to be quite pleased with himself for making a new friend.

"Oh, and I told them all about you," Andre continued. "Aubrey seems keen on meeting you," there was that twinkle again. Claire instantly understood her father's intentions, but perhaps there was more than met the eye.

"Don't be silly Father. He doesn't even know me."

"Your paths will cross at some point," said her father with a grin. "His mother is quite wealthy, you know?"

"Really?" Claire asked, not really caring.

"Yes," Andre said. "She owns a small glass shop in the square. It was her husband's, but since his death a year ago, she's been running it on her own. I think I shall go buy some glass ware," he added.

"But we have such things," Claire retorted. "Mother's china! We have glass ware. Don't waste your earnings on such things we don't need, Father; spend the money on other things- like lighting in the prop room, for example. It's dreadfully dim in there."

"Tell me now," Claire turned the subject. "What is this you heard about the Phantom of the Opera? You never finished telling me about him."

"Well, they say he wanders here and there, as if he owned the opera house, but very few think they've seen him," he chuckled. "The Phantom of the Opera chooses to dress in black, with only a white mask upon his face. They also say he is a brilliant Phantom, choosing never to appear fully; he hides. Many of the cast and crew actually believe he exists."

"Sounds like a bit of silliness to me," Claire tried to convince herself.

"Well, yes," Andre agreed. "Probably just actors or dancers playing tricks in the dark. You know how thespians can be," he added smiling. "Their minds often get carried away in their work. And speaking of such, I've too been told that the very opera we're going to perform next was even written by this Phantom!"

Claire's insides were spinning now- as was her head. Was it the Phantom she saw in the darkness of the prop room? She froze just at the thought of it. "Again, probably an- an anonymous actor," Claire suggested hopefully.

"That is what I suspect," her father announced.

_That's probably just it_, Claire thought to herself over and over again. _Just a prank; nothing more. Have they even proof of this Phantom's existence? Hopefully not. _

**Don't worry; Erik will get more involved in the story as time goes by (duh). These first two chapters aren't my best. But the next ones will be better, I promise. Please review! Thanks. **


	3. A Voice in the Dark

**A/N: Hello everyone. Thanks so much for all the reviews! Well, here's the latest chapter. I'm so happy because I bought the Gaston Leroux book today, and this other book that has the entire script to the movie with pictures, and behind the scenes stuff. I got it at Borders if you're wondering. Ok, here you go. Please review! **

**-Modesty**

**Chapter Three: A Voice in the Dark **

"Alright, alright," the director said, sitting in one of the seats of the giant opera house. "Lets see it again- from the top."

Claire sat next to father, a few rows behind the director; she was reading the script of the play as the words were practiced onstage. She and her father had been watching the regular rehearsals for three long days now.

Claire looked up from the pages of the script, biting her lip with boredom. As interesting as the play was to her, rehearsals were never exciting for her, unless she was in them.

Standing up, Claire left the script on her seat. She paced over to the door near the stage to lead to backstage, and she quietly opened it. Madame Giry saw her, and nodded. Claire smiled back. She looked around for Adeline.

Suddenly, she heard raised voices coming from the prop room. She hadn't ventured there since she first had, but she tried not to think of her first experience, for she wanted to see who was making all that noise.

"Claire- Claire!" Adeline shouted to her, her eyes ablaze.

"What ever is it?" Claire asked.

"Come in here quick!" Adeline waved her into the room.

"What is it?" Claire repeated her question, wondering what ever could cause Adeline to be so excited.

Arielle, the girl who was chosen to take the place of Carlotta, sat in a wooden chair near one of the prop display tables. Her face was white, and she was staring at a large painting that leaned up against the dark brown wall.

Claire wondered what ever happened to her. "He was here," Adeline explained. Arielle then turned around to face them, holding an unopened letter in her trembling hand.

"I found this," she said, handing it to Claire; her voice a little shaky.

"How do you-" Claire stopped herself.

Claire stared at the seal of the letter; a blood red wax skull stared back at her. Her heart beat wildly in her chest as she carefully opened the letter.

"I felt someone watching me and I looked up," Arielle said, wide eyed. "I turned around, and no one was there, but he left this on the floor. I don't think I've ever been so frightened," she shook her head.

"It's addressed to my father," Claire breathed, wide eyed. "Arielle," she said, glancing at the still quite pale girl. "Why were you back here, anyway? Shouldn't you be at rehearsals?"

"I had forgotten my tiara," Arielle blushed sheepishly. "I only came back to find it."

"I see," Claire turned to face the portrait on the wall. It was taller even than her. It was a beautiful portrait of a young woman with a crown; probably a queen, but she must have been fictional for Claire did not recognize her.

"I-I should be heading back," Arielle said, coming to her feet.

Claire, however, ignored her. Her attention was clearly focused solely on the painting. "This is a door," she said, gliding her slender fingers between the wall and the picture's wooden frame that was painted to appear as gold.

"A what?" Adeline asked, confused.

"Let's see," Claire gently started sliding the painting to her right. Adeline helped her, though the painting itself wasn't too heavy.

Behind the painting, there was nothing but wall. "There's nothing," Adeline said, a little disappointed.

"Things aren't always as they appear," Claire said, feeling around the wall for some sort of lever or handle. She knew that many theatres had trap doors that were used to allow items of large proportion or weight to travel on stage.

She had nearly given up, feeling and seeing nothing on the wall that would resemble anything at all close to a handle. She took a step back, trying to get a better view, and as she did so, she felt something beneath her right foot.

There was a tiny lever on the floor that, when she lifted her foot in surprise, swiftly disappeared into the floor, and in a split second, the wooden floor beneath her gave way.

She did not fall far, but she yelled in alarm. "Claire?" a shocked Adeline called to her from above. Claire's head was only a foot or so from the surface of the hole.

As Claire looked up to say she was alright, the trap door shut, and she was sheathed in darkness. The door opened again, for Adeline purposely stepped on the lever. "There you are," Adeline whispered in relief.

"I'm fine," Claire said, just as the door slammed shut again. Then it opened again.

"We'll get you out," Arielle yelled to Claire from above.

The door shut and opened once again. "No," said Claire. "I'm going to see where this leads!"

The door closed, and when it opened again, Adeline peered down, but Claire was gone. "Claire?" she called out, but there was no answer.

"What are you two doing?" snapped a strict voice; it was Madame Giry. Both remaining girls jolted upright.

"Nothing," lied Adeline.

"I-I found it," Arielle pointed to the tiara on the table of masks.

"Good," Madame Giry said crossly. "Now let's go. Monsieur Andre wants to see the end of the scene today!"

"Of course," Adeline said quickly, and after, all three ladies left the room, Adeline glanced back once again at the trap door, which remained uncovered by the painting.

Everywhere Claire turned there was darkness. She could hardly tell where the floor met with the walls of the tunnel, or whatever she was in. She had no depth perception and was beginning to regret her decision to travel down there. Curiosity was the first thing she felt. Where was she? Why was there a passage there, and was it still used? More importantly, why was it hidden?

After several minutes of wandering in pitch blackness, Claire finally began to see dim lights ahead. She began to walk a little faster towards them.

As she came closer, she found that the lights were torches hoisted on the stone walls of the tunnel. Still, however, Claire saw no end before her. "Hello?" she called out warily. "I- is anybody here?"

She traveled on in this maze for a few minutes more, shivering in the cold. "Don't be afraid," she whispered to herself. "It's only a deep dark tunnel underground…nothing to be worried about…" She stopped as she came to the first fork in her path.

She decided to take the right route, hoping it would lead her up and out of the darkness. She began to hum, and suddenly, in the far off distance, she could hear a voice. Someone was singing.

At first, her blood froze, and she stood perfectly still, breathing softly. Then she thought, as long as she knew where the voice was, she knew where its owner was, and that was a slightly comforting thought- but it didn't last long.

To Claire's utter dismay, she found that the voice was all around her, and though it was so far off that she couldn't make out the words to the song, she could hear it all around her, as if she was surrounded.

"Where are you?" she called out. Hello?" The man's voice suddenly stopped. All she could hear then was her heart pounding in her ears, and the heavy breaths she took. "_Who_ are you?"

"Who is this who enters my domain?!" the man's voice boomed. Claire's heart pounded as she jumped, backing into the wall with fright.

"My name is Claire. I-I am lost Monsieur- please," Claire stuttered, wishing she had not gone down there in the first place.

"Is that fear I sense in your voice?" Erik teased.

Claire swallowed hard. _This is absurd,_ she thought. _Don't be afraid Claire, don't be afraid. _"No, Monsieur," she finally spoke up."I am not afraid. And if you would find amusement in my fear, then I'm sorry to disappoint you." In reality, she was quite frightened, but she didn't want him to know that.

"And what business is that which has brought you here?" Erik questioned, heatedly.

"I only happened to stumble upon a path," Claire explained.

"How unfortunate- you're presence is not welcome here," spat Erik.

"And I wish not to be here," Claire retorted. "So you would make both sides pleased if you were to tell me how I can find my way out, and I will leave you in peace."

"Why not go back in the direction which you came?" was Erik's reply.

Claire was silent a moment, contemplating his response. She would go back, if she could remember the way. She had been through so many twists and turns, she knew she could not remember, or would have no luck in finding the way back.

When Claire remained silent, Erik spoke up. "And why should I lead you out, knowing that you would tell others of this sacred place?" he asked.

"If you asked it of me," Claire began. "I would tell no one."

"Then I do request that you keep your silence," Erik responded coldly. "But your word is not enough to convince me. What more can you do that would persuade the Phantom to free you?"

"Please Monsieur," Claire began, hopefully. "Whatever you ask of me; just tell me the way out." Erik remained silent. "I would assume that you want me out of your, as you would call it, _domain_, just as much as I want out. Please Monsieur…"

"_Then promise me you will not breathe a word,"_ Erik's deep voice filtered through the mysterious tunnels in song.

"_You shall have my tongue,"_ sang Claire.

"_Promise me." _

"_I give you my word; I promise…" _

"Very well," Erik agreed coldly. "You will have your way, and I shall lead you out." Claire smiled, standing up straight. _"Follow the sound of my voice."_

"_I will follow you,"_ Claire did as instructed, finding it relitivly easy to follow the Phantom's smooth voice as he led her through the tunnels in a song which she did not recognize. It was a dark song, she could tell by the lyrics.

Through more dismal paths, she ventured, narrowing her eyes to glimpse in the darkness. Eventually she came to a point where from then on, there were lights hung on the walls of the tunnels. Erik's voice was louder and clearer then, and Claire found it easy to follow. In a matter of minutes, the Phantom's song led Claire to the end of a tunnel.

She felt the wall before her- it was wood, not stone like the rest of the maze. Claire noticed at her feet was a small vent; she could see light coming from inside.

Feeling for a latch on the wooden door, she found it, and the wooden door slid open. Claire gratefully climbed through, and into a dimly lit room, adorned with brightly burning candles.

A smile crossed her lips, and the door behind her closed. "Thank you, Monsieur," she said, gratified; but there was no reply. The singing was gone; the Phantom was gone.

Claire glanced around her. Where was she? Claire was in awe at the beauty of the room. To her left, there was a large brightly painted stained glass window with a picture of an angel. The window let in striking shades of light that were cast upon the floor.

Suddenly, she heard footsteps just outside the room, and she exited, opening its closed door, and finding a set of stairs that curved upward in a dark hallway. She climbed the stairs, noticing a maid in the hall.

The maid's back was to her, and she held a brown feather duster in her hand, dusting off the many portraits that hung on the wall. The maid turned around with a startled expression as she heard Claire coning towards her.

"Madame?" she asked, startled. "What are you doing down here?"

"Sorry," Claire quickly apologized. "I-I got lost, you see. Umm… I was exploring."

"Curiosity, curiosity," the maid seemed to be scolding as she shook her head. "Come; you are Madame Claire?" Claire nodded. "Alright, then come with me. You're father is looking for you."

"Oh no," Claire muttered under her breath.

The maid quickly led Claire back into the main entrance of the theatre, where Claire saw her father speaking with Madame Giry, his arms folded tightly across his chest, and his back turned to them.

"There she is," Madame Giry said, looking up as she saw Claire being led by the maid out of the hallway.

Monsieur Andre turned around. "There you are," he said. "Where have you been?" He looked at the wrinkled letter Claire still held firmly in her hand.

Claire followed his gaze, remembered what she had in her hand, and gave it to her father. "This is for you," she said as Andre took it.

He stared blankly at the strange skull seal, and then opened the letter with a frown. "Where did you get this?" he asked, his eyes remained fixed on the contents of the letter.

"Arielle found it in the prop room," Claire sad truthfully. Andre folded up the letter, placing it back in its envelope. "What does it say?" Claire asked.

"It says," Andre began in a frustrated tone. "It states that I should be aware of the Phantom's presence, and it is a reminder that his _salary_ is due! His _salary_?" Andre scoffed. "And he also says that I should remember to keep his seat in box five open for all future productions!" Andre glanced up at his daughter then back down to the letter. "_Signed OG_. I don't believe this," he grumbled.

"Believe it," snapped Mme. Giry. She caught Monsieur Andre's eye. "It would be best of you to do as he says."

"Twenty thousand franks?" he grumbled. "If this man wants to know, I _am_ aware that he's here," he rolled his eyes. "And I'm very much tired of these letters!" he said walking up to a trash bin and dropping the letter inside. Mme. Giry watched his every move with her usual intense eyes.

Claire's mind was fluttering with thoughts as she watched her father return to her. "Come, Claire," he said. "It's time I think we should retire for the evening. Madame Giry," he nodded goodbye to her.

"I'll see you tomorrow Monsieur," was her reply. "He did warn you," she sighed, hoping that Andre would just do as the Phantom asked.

**Scarletquill: I'm glad you like the story. Thanks for your review **

**Dark-archer-elf: Yeah, every good story should have mystery. **

**Crazy Neko: Thanks for your review. I'm glad you find the phic enjoyable. **

**Phantomsangel102: Thanks so much for the review! I like your story too. **

**Horse-Crazy-Girl: Yeah, some people can be kinda mean. That sucks, but I liked your story. Thanks for the review! **


	4. Dinner for Four

**A/N: Greeting wonderful readers! Here is the latest update of Claire's life. I had to rewrite this chapter several times because I wasn't quite happy with, but I think it's good enough to post, so here it is. Also, notes for reviewers are listed at the bottom of this page. **

**Chapter Four: Dinner for Four **

When Claire and her father returned home that night, Andre turned to her and said, "By the way, I've invited Madame Asthore and her son, Aubrey join us for dinner."

"Oh," said Claire, as her father opened the front door, beckoning her inside. "Will they be by soon?"

Andre shut the door behind him, hanging up his dark coat on the coat rack. "They should be here at six o'clock. It's funny, I told her where our home was and she said she knew the place, so she didn't ask for any directions." he said cheerfully.

Claire glanced at the grandfather clock in their large living room. It said 'five thirty'. "You should probably get changed," Andre told her. "And wear something nice to dinner- will you?"

Claire nodded, climbing the grand staircase to her room.

When she finally came back down the stairs, she heard a pair of knocks at the door. She glided gracefully to the door, before Margaret could reach it, and carefully drew it open.

A tall prim woman with a cream dress stood at the foot of the door, accompanied by a tall young man with almost shoulder length light brown hair.

It was easy to comprehend that the two were wealthy, if not rich. Both woman and man were dressed in evening attire, and both held their bodies with elegant posture, just as Claire had been taught.

"Hello," she said politely, ushering them inside the warm house as the maid offered to take their coats. "You must be Madame Asthore?" the woman nodded graciously. "And you must be Aubrey," Claire said glancing at the handsome stranger.

"I am; and my guess is that you would be Claire?" he asked charmingly.

"I am," Claire smiled back.

"And of course even more beautiful than your father described," he bent forward, carefully taking her hand in hers, and placing a gentle kiss on its top.

Claire blushed, timidly. "Thank you," she added just as her father entered the room with a warm grin.

"Good evening," Andre said, entering the room. "You're both early."

"I thought we should be punctual," said Madame Asthore. "I hope you don't mind."

"Oh, no; not at all," Andre said with a smile. "Come, we will start dinner soon," he beckoned them to follow him into the dining room.

Madame Asthore was a beautiful woman for her advanced age. If she was anywhere close her father's age, Claire guessed she was in her mid to late forties. Her rich brown hair hung loosely in curls that bounced on her shoulders as she walked, and her lips were thin and the color of a pink rose.

Claire began to feel quite jittery by the time she sat down at the table across from Aubrey. It seemed the man couldn't keep his eyes off her, and though Claire always noticed him glancing at her face, all this attention made her slightly uncomfortable.

She felt incredibly shy under the young man's frequent gaze. Claire knew precisely why Aubrey was there- her father continued his search for Claire's soul mate, but Claire knew it would be in vain.

For the past five years Andre had played match maker, and he never was really good at it. Claire was lucky enough that her father would honor her with the right to choose her own husband, but he couldn't help but often offer suggestions.

Though the man loved his daughter dearly, he knew she was quite old to still be under his wing. He wished her well, in the care of another, for he grew wearisome from raising a child to adulthood, and nearly on his own. If he had one wish for Claire, it would be that she found a good, wealthy husband of high society, and that she'd abandon him to the peace and quiet of a daughterless household.

Madame Asthore wanted the same: for her son to marry a young, wealthy woman of high class background and upbringing. The woman had a strict taste for the plentiful women she offered her son, but as he once told her, he was in no way ready for marriage.

The man was young, naïve, and restless. All he had wanted to accomplish in a single day would be to kiss and hold the prettiest woman on the street.

Aubrey definitely was well known in the Opera Populaire, and such theatres around Paris, and he was known for his wit, dashing smile and looks, and most of all, his undying affection towards women.

His mother thought of him as beast that must settle; to be tamed by the most appropriate of women, and Claire was her next subject to offer him. To Mme. Asthore, Claire was a 'last resort'; the key to her freedom, and as all that her late husband left her was slowly waning in amount and size, Mme. Asthore wanted to bind her son in marriage quick, with a woman who would promise great wealth to the family.

Aubrey, though not thinking much of the Bonamy child at first, soon grew a liking to her; one not always offered by him to other women. There was something about how his mother first spoke of Claire to him, which forced him to think of the girl in a more serious manner; he was to think of her as a wife, not a mistress like he was used to.

He was sure it would not be, but what did his mother expect of him? _Perhaps,_ he wondered. _This is the woman who could tame my heart…_then again, Aubrey didn't want to be tamed. He had everything he wanted; knowing little about the short income his mother was receiving. Though the woman held her head high, wore the most expensive of imported dress dined at the most beautiful oak table, and denied all the flying rumors about her expenses, she knew in her heart the money flow would falter; it was only a matter of time, and Aubrey was too proud to see it. Mme. Asthore often cursed the man for leaving her too soon, and with 'so little' to spare, but she knew cursing his name would do know good. The weight of the family's dignity, honor, and wealth rested upon her son's shoulders, and he didn't even realize it.

Throughout dinner, Aubrey hesitated not to flatter the pretty young woman before him. He praised her, a falling cascade of compliments drifted from his lips.

"My breath was nearly stolen away at the sight of you in that emerald gown. You must know how to wear a dress of such elegance…Claire, you do have such beautiful hazel eyes…"

Claire did not mind the flattery, and she felt her cheeks glowing red almost every minute, but also, her cheeks grew sore of all the bashful smiling. And of course, Madame Asthore never failed to submit a story to the dining table about the countless heroic deeds of her son, Aubrey. She seemed to be serving the boy to poor Claire on a silver platter; and she wouldn't take a 'no'. Claire did not appreciate the awkward feelings that flowed freely through her.

She felt as though she _had_ to smile, she _had_ to accept the flattering words of her father's latest discovery. She knew, just by the hopeful smile plastered on the man's face that her father thought the evening was going quite well.

"This young man's been around," Mme. Asthore said with a slight giggle. "He's worked as a banker, a salesman, an actor…He once worked at your famous Opera, Andre."

"Oh, really?" asked Andre with astonishment. He never had expected that.

"Yes," Madame Asthore said with a prompt nod as she cut into her meat with her knife and fork. "He has the voice of an angel," she chimed, gleaming at him.

"Well..." Aubrey grinned, embarrassed. "That was long, long ago," he assured everyone, and glared at his mother for bringing up such a raw topic to the table of flattery. "I have done much more _interesting _things..." he tried to lead his mother off topic, but she couldn't take the hint, nor realize the tension in her son's voice.

Mme. Asthore waved him off as he if he were talking like an idiot. "Nonsense, Aubrey. He and his brother spent his brother took three full years of their busy lives to take part in the many wonderful productions at the Opera Populaire."

"You're brother?" Claire asked, trying her best to sound interested, though the conversation had left her bored long before.

"My son, James," Mme. Asthore began, shaking her head with disapproval. Her thin voice filled out as she spoke in a much darker tone. "He didn't make it past his twenty fifth birthday," she gasped, as if she were about to faint.

Claire thought her exaggeration in tone was all too dramatic, though she did pity the poor woman.

Andre grimaced. "Madame, I offer you my deepest sympathies," he said, comfortingly.

"Thank you, thank you," the woman echoed. "That was years ago; but it still tears as my poor heart," she shook her head again, lowering her eyes. "And my poor Aubrey!" she raised her voice, glancing at her second son. "He- he was released from his duties there!"

"_Fired_?" Andre spat.

"Yes! And for what reason? None, I tell you- none!"

"Mother, please," Aubrey cleared his throat with mortification. "There's no need to bring this up now…"

"I think we should!" Mme. Asthore interrupted. "As long as I'm on the topic, I must say, it was a dreadful year for Aubrey. It happened just after his brother died…"

"I wasn't _fired_," Aubrey tried to correct her. "It was of my choosing to leave." He sighed. "But I was _influenced_ to leave," he said, sounding more embarrassed than ever.

"Oh, yes," Mme. Asthore said quite curtly as she adjusted her seat at the table. "The mangers thought it was best for him to…take some time off after his brother's and father's death," she said. "Aubrey came to help me then, at the shop."

"Well that was thoughtful," complimented Andre. "Now, you say your husband owned a glass shop?"

"That is correct."

"Now, what else did your husband do- for I know you are quite a wealthy family, and with all do respect, I wouldn't imagine a business in glass ware would offer you much to…to spend."

"Oh, no, you're right, Monsieur," Mme. Asthore said briskly. "He was also a lawyer; he bought and ran the shop in his own time." She added a quick smile at the end of her statement.

Both Claire and her father had reason to believe not the entire story of how Aubrey lost his job at the theatre was being fully told, but they both hid their tongues in their mouths, and smiled politely.

Claire glanced desperately at the grandfather clock in the living room. She had to strain her eyes to read it: seven o'clock; and they were only on the main course.

Margaret seemed to be slow in the kitchen, but Mme. Asthore didn't seem to mind; it only gave her more time to brag about her son.

Aubrey leaned forward, beckoning Claire to listen to him. She leaned inward over the table too, following his gesture, not knowing why. "She could go on for hours," he said, jokingly.

"I would not be surprised," whispered Claire.

"Perhaps it bores you?" asked Aubrey.

"Oh, not at all," Claire lied quickly, falling back into her chair as she caught her father glaring at her for whispering at the table.

"Perhaps," Aubrey offered. "I could visit you in the theatre some time?"

Claire was slightly taken aback by his offer. "Of course," she replied. She couldn't admit she was looking forward to it; she wasn't. But then again, she wasn't about to admit to him that she was not interested either- especially with both adults keenly watching, like hawks stalking their prey.

Claire squirmed uncomfortably in her seat, but said nothing. After only a half an hour later, she finally hinted she was growing quite weary, and Aubrey politely suggested they take their leave- to Claire's surprise and relief.

She tired her best not to mix the feelings she had for his mother, with Aubrey himself, but she couldn't say she liked either of them very much. She watched in silence as he bid her farewell and left her house that night with his mother beside him.

Quite frankly, Claire didn't see anything special or eye catching in him at all. She had been with men like him before; charming, witty, handsome, rich, and over secure. Her father had always encouraged her to appreciate his type, but she never found she could- they were all the same.

Claire wanted something new, something different. She wanted to meet her soul mate confident that he loved her for her, not her wealth, and she got the sense that Mme. Asthore, and perhaps her son as well, did not care much for what she had on her mind, but what her father had in his account.

**Marie Erickson: Thanks so much for the review. I'm glad you like Claire. I understand that there are plenty of Erik/ Christine 'people' out there, or Erik/Meg 'ppl', and I'm always glad when they appreciate my story. And I agree, Gerard Butler is an amazing Phantom. He's one of my favorite actors, and I love his voice! It gives me the chills! What's MOTN? **

**Masked Rose1205: I'm glad you like the story so much! I hope it will live up to your expectations in the future. **

**ScarletQuill: I like to call myself a creative speller. Lol. Thanks for the heads up on how to spell franks. I'll go back and change that later, but thanks to you, I won't make that mistake again (hopefully). Thanks for your review. **

**AngelofMusic45: I read your fic and I love it! Thanks for the review. **

**So, what do you guys think of Aubrey?Please continue to review everyone, and if you have any ideas, or anything, let me know. Thanks! **


	5. Fresh Gossip

**A/N: Hello all my wonderful readers! This chapter took me a really long time to write because I kept on rewriting it over and over. I think I've done the best I can do now, and must move on. Lol. So, here it is. It's kinda long (as you will notice) and I'm gonna be gone for a couple of days (since it's President's Day Weekend) so it may be a while before I post again, but hang on! I'll be as quick as I can be. Please remember to review- I love reviews. Thanks. **

**-Modesty **

**Emaily Girl: You just may get your wish! Yes, I do believe that Christine is unworthy, and here's why: first off, she never loved Erik, she was just enchanted by his music, and she kinda loved 'Fabio' so they make a good couple. Besides, Erik deserves someone who can really appreciate him and love him for who he is, not what he does. That's where our characters come in, and in this case, Claire. Thanks for the review! I hope you enjoy this chapter. **

**MAskedRose1205: I'm so glad you think I'm a talented writer. That makes me happy! **

**Kamille: Thanks for your review. I hope you read more. I did check out your artwork and LOVED it. The expressions were wonderful and the pictures were very creative. You're a very talented artist. I have not heard Michael Crawford's voice. Does he play the Phantom in the older version? I'd like to see it, but I can't find it anywhere. **

**Lien Rivers: Exactly…I totally agree with you about Aubrey. He's an ok guy, just a little…well, he's an airhead. Lol. Yes, Christine got her man, now it's Erik's turn to find love. **

**Marie Erikson: Thanks so much for your review! Well, you'll find out later on that Claire's father is quite, unusual. He has his reasons for what he does. He wants to let her go, but he also wants to 'imprison' her. It's just his nature. Hopefully I'll be able to explain that more later on. He's not really pursuing the mother. He's just making note of the 'fine bloodline' that may be passed on to Claire's children if she marries Aubrey. Alas, the 'show don't tell' rule. Lol. I'll try my best to follow it, but it's hard sometimes. During the period where I wrote chapter four, I had been reading Gaston Leroux's novel, and I don't know if you've read it or not, but he tells a lot more than he shows, and I thought I'd see if I could 'pull it off' but like you said, it's just not good enough. I liked your version though, and your review was really helpful. It's helpful criticism and I'm glad you like the story enough to help improve it. That means a lot to me. Cheers to you! Lol. I would love for you to be my beta reader, but I'm 'not allowed' by me parental unit, sorry. Thanks for the offer though! **

**Chapter Five: Fresh Gossip **

It was mid-afternoon the following day. Claire found Adeline and Arielle in the first loft that made up the entire first floor above the stage. Claire climbed the winding spiral of one staircase to the upper storage area of the backstage corridors. It was there that many set pieces were stored, and handfuls of performers waited behind stage for their cues during a performance. High in the lofts of the theatre, actors and stage hands- and perhaps a certain spying Phantom every now and then- could view the stage below them quite clearly.

It was also the usual location of the chief stage hand, Joseph Buquet who conversed with the dancers, as he loved the ladies' undivided attention. The man usually spent his time wandering about the stage and the rest of the theatre, through all twelve of the theatre's floors (of which three of the twelve were not even traveled by him). Whenever Joseph found the opportunity, he would spend his time in the first loft.

He was in the exact spot Claire had seen him in the day before when Adeline had first introduced her to the lofts. His left arm leaned against the railing of the loft, and he was accompanied by two tall, long haired dancers.

Claire's eyes rolled as she heard the dancers giggling with him. Who knew why they paid attention to the man? Joseph was at least, to her, quite undesirable.

The man was not short in stature; but he lacked the height of taller men such as her father, and he was a little rounded in the middle. His cheeks were often rosy appearing, for he often was in a cheerful mood, and his hair was a rich brown color. It fell a little past his shoulders, and the hair on his face had the color to match.

Claire found him in no way charming either. He flirted with numerous women, whom scarcely denied his invitations to converse. The dancers of the Opera House had grown accustomed to the man's 'unsophisticated' nature, though Madame Giry, and nearly everyone else seemed to find despise for his lack of decorum in their hearts.

Mme. Giry would often sigh and shake her head when she would catch the middle aged man flirting endlessly with any young woman of his choice. "That man must settle himself," she had once told her daughter, Meg. "My guess is that he, and those two Asthore boys have taken advantage of such women as your class mates more than need mentioning. Those poor dears are so naïve in their youth." Meg had solemnly promised she would never allow the man to touch her.

"Claire," Adeline waved, as she noticed her friend coming to her from the spiral stairs. "Madame Giry said they'd found you," she smiled.

"They did," Claire agreed.

"What happened?" Arielle asked, wide eyed. "Where did you go?"

"Keep our voices low, girls," Adeline shushed. "It's probably best that no one else hear us."

"Except for me," snapped Emily, strutting towards them with a grin. "Now tell me- what's all the whispering about? Come on, I need fresh gossip!"

"Shush!" hushed Adeline, glancing at Joseph and the other dancers; they seemed to be too busy to even notice her existence.

"Well what?" Emily inquired again, determined to receive an answer.

"Should we tell her?" Arielle asked.

"Well…" began Claire.

"Oh, tell me girls," Emily begged. "You know I can keep a secret, her eyes twinkled.

"Only if you promise not to tell," Adeline whispered.

"Tell who?" asked Emily, standing on her toes, stretching her ankles.

"Anyone," Adeline answered her eyes serious.

"Alright, I promise."

"Yesterday we found a secret passage in the prop room," Adeline began.

"Well don't tell her _where_," Claire muttered too late. Adeline ignored her.

"A secret passage?" Emily questioned, seemingly mystified.

"Yes," Adeline breathed in awe.

Emily turned to Claire, "and where did it lead?"

"Well that's the thing," said Adeline, turning to Claire for an answer. "Claire was the only one to go in it, and we were just asking her what had happened."

"So?" Emily asked, asking Claire.

"Well," Claire began. "I," she stared down at the floor, then up again at Adeline and then the others. "It was just a tunnel," she lied.

"That's it?" asked Emily, disappointed. "Nothing? Come on, you can't be telling the half of it."

"No, it's the truth," Claire said. "It was just an empty, abandoned tunnel."

"What is a tunnel doing in this opera house?" Emily rolled her eyes.

"Where did it lead, Claire?" Arielle begged to know.

"It led to a room…and a hallway, and from there I found my way to the lobby," Claire confessed with honesty.

"And," Adeline chose to answer Emily's question herself. "Don't you know that many theatres have tunnels leading from the prop rooms to the stages, and all over underground, so the performers can go to and from the stage without being seen by the audience?"

"Oh, of course," Emily muttered in agreement.

"Did you give your father the letter?" was Arielle's next question.

"Letter? What letter?" piped Emily.

"Oh, sorry," Arielle clasped a hand over her mouth. Claire cast a swift glare in her direction, but Emily had already heard her, and now she wanted more information, as she always did.

"I gave it to my father," she said, with coldness in her voice. Emily already knew too much, she thought. Arielle and Adeline had better keep their mouths shut tighter.

"If you don't mind my asking," Emily began. "What was the letter about?"

"Nothing," Claire shook her head. "It was nothing."

"Was it from the O.G.?" Emily asked.

"O.G.?" Claire recognized the initials from the day before; her father had mentioned that was who had signed the letter.

"The Opera Ghost," breathed Adeline.

"Oh, then yes; it was from him," Claire confirmed. "But I don't see why it should muster all this attention. Father thinks it's just a practical joke- or worse. You people actually believe in something that isn't real."

"He is real, and you don't see why?" Emily asked, her mouth gaping slightly. "Well if the Opera Ghost sent a letter, this certainly would be good gossip."

"But you promised not to tell," Adeline snapped.

"Of course," Emily promised again, drawing back slightly. "I said it _would_ be good gossip; don't worry," she added with a smirk. Claire frowned, she couldn't trust her. How could the queen of gossip pass this news up? "It's too disappointing anyway," she lied.

"Disappointing- what- the news?" asked Claire, titling her head.

"Well, yes," Emily said. "If you didn't find the Opera Ghost in the tunnels," she grinned. "Then there's nothing worth telling anyway. You girls need not doubt my word. I will tell no one."

"I hope so," Claire said, with a threatening glare at the dancer.

"You worry too much, Claire," Emily told her. "But if you ever do have an encounter with _him_, be sure to let me know- I won't tell, if that's what you want," she forced herself to add.

"Why is everything about him such a big deal to all of you?" asked Claire wondrously.

"Don't you like a bit of excitement?" asked Adeline.

"Well yes..."

"Oh, it's more than just excitement," explained Emily. "It's pure fear."

"Fear? But why?" asked Claire.

"Perhaps we should ask Joseph to explain?" Emily suggested.

"No!" both Adeline and Claire answered at once.

"Very well then," Emily said, cynically. "I shall do my best to explain." Claire listened intently, though she wasn't sure if she's believe all the gossip Emily might have tucked under her tongue.

"The opera ghost is treacherous. He always gets his way," Emily began. "He's practically been running this theatre for as long as Madame Giry's been here."

"And that's a _long_ time," Arielle butted in.

"No one knows his real name, or where he came from," Emily continued, talking as if she were a story teller. "But he seems to know everything that happens here," she quieted her voice. "He knows this theatre like the back of his hand, and the ghost plays his cards right all the time."

"What does that mean?" asked Claire.

"It means he gets what he wants," said Adeline. "And if he doesn't…"

"Disasters have been known to occur," Emily smiled sadistically.

"Like what?" Claire whispered.

"Well," Emily continued. "He steals things; things go missing, props, costumes, food, and set pieces. Things break, and fall on people," she snickered, remembering once when a fake wooden cloud nearly crushed La Carlotta after she'd spoken ill of the Opera Ghost.

"All that you've said seems to me to be a series of practical jokes," spoke Claire.

"Do you think death is a practical joke?" spat Emily rather haughtily. The fire burning on her lips as she said this startled Claire, so the girl remained silent. What did Emily mean by this?

"Yes, it's true," said Adeline, her face somber and her words full of sorrow. She lowered her gaze. "The Opera Ghost is a murderer, among other things."

Claire's jaw hung loose, her mouth opened up like a gloomy cave. Her spine tingled of winter's chill, her face froze in disbelief, and her heart seemed to sink in her chest. She swallowed hard, waiting for someone to explain further.

Arielle glanced immediately towards Joseph Buquet. Then she looked back at her friends, her face was paler that the others, and she leaned against the wall to keep her balance.

"Arielle, are you alright?" asked muttered Claire, almost breathlessly. The poor girl looked as if she were bound to faint.

"Arielle saw it happen," breathed Adeline. All eyes were on petite little Arielle, and she squirmed. In the mirrors of her eyes reflected sadness, memories, and a flash of brutality.

Flashing through her mind was the memory of what had happened that night. It took Arielle several minutes to answer. After standing still and quiet, she finally glanced up at her friends, and back to Joseph, who was still buried in deep conversation with the flirtatious dancers.

"He did it," she finally said in a hoarse whisper.

"Joseph?" exclaimed Claire, after following Arielle's gaze.

"No!" Arielle shouted so abruptly that it startled Claire. "The Ghost."

"He- he killed…someone?" Claire inquired a little shakily. Arielle slowly nodded.

Claire had no doubt that the man's voice she heard only the day before, in the dreary shadows of the labyrinth below the lower levels of the theatre had belonged to the Opera Ghost. She realized this the first time she heard him, and it never crossed her mind that the voice could have belonged to any other.

Who else could it have been who sang to her? Who asked her to leave his domain, and never breathe a word of his existence, though many were suspicious of him already? The flesh on Claire's arms and shoulders grew cold at the thought of him, but though his existence was shrouded in mystery, it did not frighten her.

She felt her face grow as pale as her friend's, and Claire had to lean up against the wall to keep her balance. She could feel her limbs warm and numb. Her stomach lurched.

_Killed? He- he _killed_ someone? It can't be…it couldn't have been him! _

But it was- as Arielle then explained:

"I won't speak of it now…Claire are you alright?" Claire nodded slowly. Arielle continued. "All I can say," she shot a fiery glance at Joseph for some unknown reason that Claire couldn't see. "All I can say is that he did it- the Phantom. And I-I saw," her voice trailed off, hoarsely, as though the words were being scraped against her weak throat as she spoke them, unable to keep them locked inside her.

"My God," was all Claire could say. She put her hand to her stomach. "It couldn't have been- him?"

"It was," Arielle reassured her, the color coming back to her face, though it was not the same for poor Claire.

"Was it an accident?" Claire forced herself to ask, hoping to God it was- but she already knew the answer.

Arielle frowned; her eyes reflected the deeply felt pain for the loss of that man's life. "No," she said surprisingly firmly, her words no longer as raspy as before. They were then filled with a heat of anger. "It was no accident! It was murder," her eyes lit on fire as she said this.

Joseph Buquet couldn't have drowned out the anger in the petite girl's solid voice. The two women had just seconds before bid him farewell and had made their merry way down the staircase to the floor below.

Joseph strutted over to Arielle's side. He put an unwelcome hand on her shoulder. Arielle made a feeble attempt to shrug it off, but it didn't move from its place.

Claire frowned, the white of her face draining away with anger for her friend. What had gotten into Joseph that had encouraged him to touch Arielle with out her consent?

"Have my ears deceived me," he began with a sly grin. "Or did I hear you speak the word 'murder' Arielle?"

Arielle's voice lost its luster and all potency vanished from her words. "Yes, Joseph," she said, her voice quavering. She glanced downwards. "All I said was-"

"No one needs to be talking of such unfortunate occurrences," he continued, not allowing Arielle to finish.

"She wasn't telling us anything, Joseph," snapped Adeline, now with a burning glaze in her bright hazel eyes. "And you can keep your snooping nose out of our business."

Joseph looked surprised. He let go of Arielle's shoulder and took a few steps back. "And what ever did I do to deserve such treatment?" he begged to know.

Adeline's threatening glare only grew more intense. She took a deep breath. "Just leave us be, Joseph," she spat.

"I just don't see why you girls have to be so rude!" Joseph shot back. "Foolish girls," Joseph said with a light chuckle. "You know so little…"

"Leave us, Joseph- please," said Arielle sternly, but calmly.

Joseph scowled and backed away. "I've got my rounds to make, anyhow," he said as he left, walking down the spiral staircase and disappearing from view.

"What was that all about?" asked Claire, watching the man climb downward.

"Nothing," said Adeline abruptly.

"It obviously isn't anything," shot Emily. "The man isn't that bad you know? Just because he's a little grungy…"

"Grungy has nothing to do with it!" Adeline retorted with heated anger. It stunned Claire how emotional she was getting in such a short time. She wondered if something terrible agitated her.

Claire glanced at Arielle, who stood silent, staring at the floor in what looked like despair. What did they know that she didn't?

"That man has no kindness or honor left in him," Adeline said coldly. "He thinks he owns this opera- just because he's been here so long, and the women just _adore_ him!"

"It's because he's nice to us!" Emily shouted.

"Nice? How has that man ever been nice?"

"He's kind to _me_," Emily retorted arrogantly. "He can appreciate a woman's true talent."

"He only showers you with compliments so he can get what he wants," Adeline scolded. "He doesn't care how wonderful a person you are. All he appreciates is the way you look, and your naiveté."

Emily's brow furrowed. "I don't know what's gotten in your thick skull that would prompt you to be as rude as you just were," said Emily. "But I hope you understand that Joseph is_ not_ a bad man, though I'll admit he does have his faults."

Emily stood tall, pivoted on her heel, and simply walked away. Claire could have sworn she saw steam flying from the dancer's ears.

Adeline grunted with frustration. "She only likes that man because he's friends with Aubrey!" she retorted.

Claire stood straight at the sound of his name. "Aubrey?"

"Yes," Adeline assured her. "He, Joseph, and Gaston were rarely apart. And where Aubrey was- Emily was there trying to catch his attention."

"Wait- Aubrey Asthore?"

"Yes. You know him?"

"I do," replied Claire. "He had dinner with me just last night. I knew he worked here once, but I didn't know you knew him."

"I did," Adeline said. Arielle remained quiet, lost in deep thought. "I'm actually glad he left though. I mean, I suppose he was kind enough, but if he was anything like his brother…"

"Which he was," Arielle suddenly butted into the conversation, her voice sounding dazed.

"True," Adeline agreed. "Well, all three men I never really liked. Emily, however, is a different story," she rolled her eyes.

"How so?" asked Claire, her mind still teeming with thoughts of the murderous ghost.

"Emily said she loved Aubrey once. I don't think she ever did. I think it's best the Phantom got rid of him."

"What?" asked an astounded Claire. "What do you mean, 'got rid of him'?"

"Oh, sorry. Let me explain so you're not as lost," said Adeline. "After the murder- the one the Phantom committed- Aubrey swore he'd avenge his brother-"

"His brother was murdered?" Claire's eyes widened.

"Yes," Adeline cleared her throat. "I thought I'd said that?" Claire shook her head, as if in a daze. "Anyway, the Phantom, as is expected, wasn't very comfortable with Aubrey in his theatre. He wrote a letter to the manager then, asking him to fire both Aubrey and Joseph, or he'd rid the theatre of them himself.

"The manager, of course fired Aubrey immediately, but he didn't want to let Joseph go, for Joseph was his friend, and he liked him much more than Aubrey. So, the manger struck a bargain with the Phantom. I'm not really sure what his half of the bargain was, why O.G. eventually agreed to allow Joseph to remain at the Opera, as long as he bothered him not."

"I can't believe it," mumbled Claire. "Are you sure that's why Aubrey left? It could have just been a rumor?"

"No," Adeline shook her head. Trust me, I know. That is why Aubrey left- he was forced to."

_Why did he lie to me?_ Claire asked herself. _Why? Was it the embarrassment that kept his mother from telling the truth, or was there some other reason for his secrecy?_ She did not know- but what she did know was this: Claire was sick of lies.

**A/N: And don't worry, I promise you'll be seeing A LOT more of Erik in the next chapter. This chapter is sort of the last 'boring' ones, and all the goodies come next! Wipee! Please tell me what you think and what you hope for. Cheers! **

**PS: Wish good luck to 'Dear Frankie' a movie that's premiering at a film festival this weekend. Hopefully it will do well! Gosh, I want to see it so bad! **


	6. Le Rouge Fevriar

**A/N: Sorry this is overdue. I hope y'all like this chapter b/c it finally has Erik in it! Yay! I love writing about him. Anyway, please review- I love reviews, they make my day a happy one. Thanks. **

**EmailyGirl: Yes, I did get Claire's name from Timeline. Congrats! You're the first one to put that together! Lol. I wanna see 'Dear Frankie' too! It's gonna make me cry, cuz I can relate- just like it made poor Gerry cry when he read the script! **

**Kamille: I'll try to find the SD with Crawford, my grandparents probably have it. Lol. Do you have an account here? I'd like to read anything you've written. I'm glad you like my story. **

**Marie Erickson: OMG! I did that just the other day with someone else's fic. I was just reading it thinking how familiar it was, and then I realized I'd already read it. Thanks for your advice again, I really appreciate it. **

**Chapter Six: Le Rouge Fevriar **

A man dressed all in black, with only a white dress shirt beneath his ebony coat, sat still as one of the many looming gargoyles that glared menacingly down from their pillars, half stuck in a lake of water behind him. A red velvet covered stool stood beneath him on four thick brown legs.

Before him was a mirror, and in that mirror, a diminished reflection; that never saw any smiles or cheer. His prominent green eyes, olive in hue, skimmed across his face in the mirror.

He turned his head slightly and with his left hand combed back his slicked a strand of his obsidian hair back behind his ear. _It must be perfect. _His face wasn't, so surely everything else _must_ be. It glistened, luminescent in the dim candlelight that floated in the air all around him.

His most prominent feature was an ivory colored mask plastered tightly to the skin of his face, hiding distorted features behind it. He turned his head again, this time pale, naked flesh was presented to the silent, accusing eyes of the mirror.

His hair on that side was superb, he thought. Nothing more needed to be done with it. It was perfectly slicked back, radiant with cleanliness. It impressed even him, but then again, tonight was a special event to him, and he wanted to look his best. Though, some may think it pointless that he presented an immaculate appearance when he planned on not being seen by anyone.

Beside the mirror, laying flat on his the boudoir, were two familiar items: a golden mask made of delicate porcelain, much like his, and a small silver hand mirror. They lay side by side, motionless.

He turned a full face back to the mirror. It was when he was carefully slipping his black gloves over his hands that he heard a feminine voice call to him from behind. "It has started."

Erik looked at the golden-haired woman's reflection in the mirror and turned around to face her. She stood erect, back straight and face void of any emotion. She looked directly at him, not once flinching at the sight of the deathly pale mask that hung on the right side of his face, the bottom brushing slightly against the top of his upper lip and encircling his right eye.

"Thank you, Madame Giry," he said, sounding not at all appreciative, but rash and cold. "And how is the opera?" Before he left her any time to reply, he started again with bitter harshness in his tone. "Is it worth my audience, or would I be bored with its definite lackluster? Should I even waste this good clear night in the stuffy halls of my theatre, or should I spend them down here, alone?"

Madame Giry lowered her eyes. "It is worth your audience," she promised, simply.

"Good," Erik slipped the last warm glove over his left hand with a tight pull from his right. "I shall be at my usual place in Box Seat Five, as I've instructed," he reminded her. "At half past seven. I'm not quite all together yet."

"I'll leave you to your business, Monsieur," Mme. Giry nodded curtly and turned on her heel.

"Madame?" Erik asked, back half to her, his broad shoulders tilting at a slant. He shifted the weight of his feet and his posture straightened and lengthened. "The opera you say, is worth my acknowledgment, as I had wanted to be reported. How are the performers this night? Little Arielle and Armand?"

Madame Giry stood tall again, facing him with calm azure eyes that had seen far too much tender pain. Her hair was pulled tightly in a bun in the back of her head and she wore a long black gown, quite simplistic, and ethereal all the same; it mirrored her personality well. "We've the finest in all Paris, perhaps even France," she acknowledged. "They are doing quite well so far. Monsieur Armand…"

"And the diva?" Erik interrupted.

"She is no Carlotta."

Erik gave the slightest hint of a smile. "No one is quite like Carlotta," he said honestly, but it was not a compliment. "God may have graced me with one thing in this living hell, and that is that there is but one Carlotta in the world."

"There surely are more Carlotta's," Mme. Giry corrected him, speaking boldly.

Erik nodded sadistically in agreement, still with the hint of a smile carved out of his lips. "But God has graced me not to know them." He then took a strange turn in the subject matter. "There may be more than one of everyone; everyone except Erik."

Madame Giry shifted her stance, her placid eyes drifting over the man's withered face. "No, Erik; you are unique." She said it calmly, not as any form of insult, but as the harsh cruel reality that was drowning the man in his own self loathing, and had been seen the day he was old enough realize this was true. Erik was _unique_.

Erik scoffed, turning his back to her, and repeating that one word twice over in a sarcastic tone. He was laughing at himself. "Unique?" he nearly screamed it in rage and self pity through a muffled chuckle.

Mme. Giry looked upon the man's turned back with scorn. When would Erik learn? _Never,_ she answered herself. "Come tonight, Erik," she said softly. "I've saved Box Seat Five for your use."

"I assure you Madame Giry," Erik promised her. "That I will be there."

Claire heaved a deep sigh as the opera entranced its lively audience. Her ribs ached in the tight corset that choked her waist of free room. Monsieur Andre sat next to her in a crimson cushioned armchair, one much like her own.

Her skin grew damp in the aching heat. True, it was winter, and February, no doubt, but that meant little when you were an upper-class woman in the mid 1800s. Claire wore many layers of undergarments beneath the suffocating jaws of her corset, and long flowing train of her dress which, of course, passed far below her ankles. A pair of soft white gloves covered her arms nearly to her shoulders.

Her waist length auburn locks were bound loosely in a beautiful French roll. She normally would have wished to wear her hair down, though it was frowned upon by her father, but on this night, it was God's heavenly gift that she wore it up, allowing her neck to cool slightly.

She briskly fanned herself, and then placed her light fan by her side. Her posture was straight, and her neck craned light and tall. She wore a sapphire gown with smooth and elegant lines, and a deep curved neckline.

A short necklace laced with black gems accessorized her outstretched neck, and she wore black velvet gloves upon her hands. The February night air had forced her to dress warmly, perhaps too warmly for her liking.

It was nearing the middle of the first act. Arielle was on stage, belting her beautiful music. Chorus Master Gabriel had trained the young woman's vocals well, but everyone watching the opera knew well that, though girl was talented enough for the role, she was no match to the famed La Carlotta, and many wondered why this Arielle woman had taken the diva's once secure place on stage.

As Arielle's part in the song came to a close, Armand, another young talent trained by Monsieur Gabriel raised his voice in song. His character, Fredric serenaded his love, Amelia, played by Arielle. His voice was quite lovely, Claire thought, but nothing too astounding; nothing she hadn't heard before.

"_I feel myself surrender_

_Each time I see your face_

_I am staggered by your beauty, your song, and your grace._

_And I feel my heart is turning_

_Falling into place_

_I can't hide, now I'm here_

_In my confession" _

Arielle then sang:

"_I have been wrong, about you,_

_Thought I was strong without you_

_For so long, nothing could move me_

_So long, nothing could change me…" _

Then both voices melted splendidly in a duet:

"_Now I feel myself surrender _

_Each time I see your face _

_I am captured by your beauty, your song, and your grace_

_And I feel my heart is turning_

_Falling into place_

_I can't hide now, I'm here _

_In my confession…" _

Claire mouthed the words along with the song- the song she had so longed to sing that night, but she knew she never could. It felt as if her heart was rotting away in her breast; she felt useless in all her being. All she had ever been since her mother's death was a mere stage hand, a helper to those more fortunate than herself. Even her father, her once modest and humble father now discouraged her from mingling too often with the opera performers. They were of _"lower class"._

Claire tried her best to keep from feeling jealous of her friends, but she couldn't help her tortured feelings. She was extremely glad for Arielle that night, but she couldn't help but wish they had switched places for once. It would please her just to be onstage, to dance or even acquire a small, mute role, but her father, she thought, would always deny her of those simple pleasures.

As the song ended, all actors moved off stage, preparing for the next scene. There was a moment of silence. Claire leaned to the left, into her father's ear. ""Box Seat Five appears to be empty," she acknowledged aloud, wondering what her father might have to say about this, remembering that it was the seat the Phantom had asked for.

Andre scowled. "It was supposed to be a full house tonight," he whispered back. "All seats have been rented!" he didn't understand why someone would pay so much for such a spectacular seat in the Opera House, and then not use it.

Claire seemed to have read her father's mind. "Perhaps whoever rented it became ill," she offered, not once believing it herself.

"This is all that Madame Giry's doing," Andre said. "I feel it in my bones. She's the one person who urged me to keep that seat available for that _Opera Ghost_!" he whispered rather loudly this time.

Claire couldn't help but glance quickly at Box Seat Five. Well, she meant to glance quickly, but her head did not move back to its former position. She sat, staring across the room, eyes open widely.

What she had just seen caused the flesh on her arms to crawl, her muscles to tense, and her blood to run cold with fear. The crimson curtains meant for privacy that were strung behind the box seat billowed as if they'd been moved by a strong breath of wind. But what wind? There surely was no draft in the theatre. That one curtain was all that stirred. Claire swallowed hard.

She tore her eyes from the site as the curtains relaxed and drooped still, and calm. What frightened her more was the cold voice that kept playing over and over in her mind. _He's here_, it told her. _He's there, in Box Five. _

Her imagination ran wild as it always had. She believed now. It couldn't have been the wind. No; someone was there. An usher? No; a Phantom!

**Ok, I gave you Erik, now please review! **


	7. The Pit

**A/N: Hello, everyone. Thanks so much for all the wonderful reviews. Sorry I can't respond to them all, but time is limited, so I'll only respond to the longer, more in depth reviews. Lol- ok, so this chapter is a bit longer than usual, but that's cool, cause the next one will be a little shorter. Also, I forgot to say that in the last chapter, I used a song by Josh Groban. I will use several more of his through out the story, so if you like his music, that's great! Remember to please review! Gracias! **

**Camlann: Thanks for the review! I got your emails and replied to them on my URL. Just letting you know. Who knows what will become of Claire? Lol. **

**MaskedRose1205: I try my best, lol. I'm glad you like the story. I like your story as well. I hope you enjoy this chapter. **

**Countess Alana: Well, here you're getting your wish. Tehehe…pretty soon the Claire and Erik action will get better. For right now (besides this chapter) it is kinda slow, but the wait will be worth it. I wish I could just rush into things with them, but that wouldn't be realistic. Sighs Goodness these people are so darn slow! Lol. **

**AngelofMusic45: Yes, I love Josh Groban. I can't wait to add in the rest of his songs (not all of course.) I'll probably use two or three more from the album, 'Closer'. I wonder if you can guess which ones? I'm so excited! Lol. **

**Chapter Seven: The Pit **

Claire pushed her way through the much smaller crowd of people on the top floor of the theatre's seating section as the audience trampled their way toward the stairs to the exit at once like a herd of cattle. She managed to slip past Aubrey and his mother unnoticed, which was never an intention, but just so happened. The play had just gotten over, and Claire was growing anxious.

She stopped at the foot of the crimson curtain that divided her from the Box. She took a deep breath, and lifted her hand. Carefully she pulled back the velvet curtains; there was no one there.

She frowned, baffled. _He must have left in the crowd, unnoticed,_ she thought. And as she turned to leave, something bright caught her eye.

There, on the sole chair in Box Seat Five, was a pale envelope, and beside it, a box. Claire glided gracefully towards the chair, curiosity gripping her by the throat, with no intentions of freeing her.

Her eyes could not be torn from the items. She picked up the box and opened it, not caring at all whether she was being rude. "What are these things doing here?" she couldn't help but wonder aloud.

"Those are not for you," she thought she heard a soft whisper behind her. Shuddering, Claire spun around; nothing was there, no one. Her blood ran cold, but she would not leave empty handed.

She placed her slender fingers on the rim of the wooden box, and carefully opened it. Her eyes grew in amazement and surprise…candy! Tiny truffles and hard candies of so many flavors! What on earth were these doing here? Gifts for a kind usher, perhaps? Claire quickly closed the box, not wanting to tempt herself, of course.

She picked up the letter with the blood red wax seal of a tortured skull. A river of ice trickled down her spine as she opened the envelope and read its contents, written with red ink. She recognized the scribbled hand writing and ink almost immediately. She barely breathed, fearing the sound of her rising chest and beating heart in her bosom could wake a sleeping beast.

_Dearest Madame Giry,_ the letter read.

_It is to you whom I must entrust my undeniable gratitude for keeping my place intact this evening. I am disappointed to realize that Monsieur Bonamy has still not decided to comply with my simple instructions. The opera was quite well and all, I do agree, but I fear we will have to cut little Arielle's budding career as a singer short; I was not all that impressed. Please do see me after you receive this letter. I've something of great importance to deliver to you, in person. _

_Your humble friend, _

_O.G. _

_P.S. I hope you enjoy the new variety and selection of candies tonight. I rather enjoy the tart squares myself. _

Claire closed the letter, not even looking at it. She was staring off the balcony, watching as the last of the audience filed out of the auditorium. Her eyes were wide with wonder. "Madame Giry," she muttered. "Oh my, your…"she glanced down at the exact words on the parchment. "_Humble friend?_"

She folded the letter and placed it back in its envelope, her breath then returning to normal. She placed a trembling hand over her heart and staggered back into a mahogany beam that aided in holding up the grand opera house.

She dropped the envelope to the floor, and did not pick it up. "You should not be here…"

Claire spun around again. It seemed almost as if the voice came from the beam. How could that be possible? She studied it a moment, and then took a step backward, shaking her head slightly. "Who's there?" Was she going mad?

No one answered. Claire spent a moment in silence. She didn't know what to do. Should she leave? Her father was probably searching for her. No, she changed her mind. He would be too occupied by others at the moment to notice his daughter's absence. She hadn't been gone _that_ long.

Her hands moved through the air, and swept the side of the beam delicately. A trap door came to mind- just like the one in the prop room. _The Phantom must have had one to gain access to this box, this specific box! That's why he requested it so adamantly! _

Claire's hands glided all over the beam, around its smooth edges and elongated curves; she found nothing. She looked on the ground; no lever of any kind. She rose up her head; still nothing.

She turned around to see if she could find anything else. As she did so, she noticed a place on the wall where the curtains met with it. Attached to the curtain was a golden string, almost as thick as a rope. All boxes had this feature; they were meant to be pretty, decorated pieces, tassels.

She wrapped her fingers around it and gave it a good tug. Nothing happened, so she tried again. She pulled down with every ounce of strength in her. Her knees bent and she collapsed to the floor.

With a grunt, she looked up at the beam, and where there once was a wooden surface, then was an empty hole; a hole into space.

She glanced down the- what looked like- the bottomless pit. Her heart beginning to race, Claire imagined this was yet another secret passage. _But, how did anyone get_…she stopped, noticing something she had not seen before.

It was a hollow beam; that Claire could tell, but she wondered how anyone could climb down. She didn't have to wonder long. Tiny steps lined one side of the beam, somewhat like a ladder.

Claire's first instinct was to climb down and see where it led. Of course, she followed it without much thought of what she might find at the bottom. Carefully, she stepped into the beam, placing her foot on one of the ridges of the steps. Then she took another step downward, and soon she found herself _climbing_ down _in_ the beam!

She shivered with apprehension, and she pasted her eyes to the darkness below her; she could not see all the way to the bottom for it was quite far down. Her chest rose and fell as she climbed. She took deep, slow breaths. More than once the tips of her boots would slip, sending her heart racing, but she continued without any hesitation.

As before, Claire was shrouded in darkness. She did not know when the 'ladder' would come to an end, but after several more minutes she finally felt solid ground with her boot. She smiled, relieved that the end had come.

She turned her head upward; a tiny rectangle of light was small as a star in the night sky above her. She must have been far below the auditorium, for it was only two floors below the highest box seats.

She glanced around her; darkness. Claire let out a sigh. She was in a hallway, she knew that much. It was similar to the previous one she had entered; only this one was slightly better lit. She followed it, warily.

Flickering candles stood tall and proud in their mounts on the walls on either side of her. Claire licked her drying lips. Following the gloomy route before her, Claire soon found herself at the end of the hallway.

She cocked her head, baffled. There was a door- a sliding door! She grasped its edges and pulled it upward. It made a loud scratchy sound as it slid open, and Claire gritted her teeth. She hoped no one had heard her!

Slipping quietly through the doorway, Claire found herself in a very peculiar hall. She was standing on a series of slender stone steps. The walls, she could tell were made of stone. The stairs curved to the left. Claire slowed down, her chest heaving.

"What is this place?" she panted aloud.

Then she started to walk again, and as she traveled down the stairs; her pace quickened. All too suddenly, she felt the floor slip away from underneath her.

Claire screamed as she fell into a trap- a pit of water. Her entire head was forced underwater, and the water was deep.

Gasping for breath, she came out of the cold water. Her long silver earrings dangled on the surface of the water. Claire gasped; it was cold. As shivers ran down her spine, Claire looked up to where she heard a noise.

A sudden creaking rang in her ears, and she noticed the bars coming down over her. "Oh no," she gasped, spitting out water. The bars dropped closer.

Claire quickly glanced around, looking for an exit, but she saw none. Dunking her head under the water, she saw that there was no escape there, either. She did notice, however, a circular latch. She swam over to it, trying to turn it, but it would not move.

Running out of air, Claire swam back to the surface for the last time; the bars were only inches from her head. "Help!" she gasped, choking on the icy water. "Help!" the word was gurgled under water.

Claire quickly swam back to the latch. She gripped it tightly and pulled with all the strength left in her, but it still refused to move.

Claire gasped couldn't stop herself from gasping for breath, only letting precious bubbles of air out and deadly water in. She felt her eyes rolling to the back of her head, and the last thing she heard was a terrible screeching.

Erik yanked tighter on the chain pulley, lifting the metal bars from the water. The rusted chains bit into his fingers. He let out a grunt as he gripped the chain tighter, pulling with all the strength he had.

He could see the bubbles of air rising and popping at the surface of the water. For all he knew, the girl he heard screaming could be dead, but he had to try.

As the metal bars lifted, Erik slid them aside on the stone step, taking a giant leap into the cold water. He immediately felt Claire's limp body. He wrapped his arms around her waist, lifting her to the surface of the water.

He suddenly felt her chest rising and falling as she gasped for air, and life slowly filtered back in her.

"Give her to me!" ordered Madame Giry from above. She reached her hands down as far as she could; she could barely reach Claire's arm.

Erik did as he was told, lifting Claire upward by the waist, his mask threatening to fall. Mme. Giry stretched her arm out, grabbing Claire's wrist and pulled her up. Erik then reached down to the latch, using up his strength again, by pushing it away from him. Slowly the latch turned and the water began to drain out. A trap door opened at his side.

Claire gasped for air as she stood, still spitting out water on the stone steps. She turned her head upward. "Madame Giry?"

"Do not follow _him_!" the woman said, coldly.

Claire slowly brought herself to her feet. She leaned over the edge of the trap, seeing that it was empty. "It was him," she gasped. "It was the Opera Ghost, Madame Giry! Where did he go?"

"He has left us," was the woman's reply.

"He saved me," Claire breathed; her dress clinging to her soaking and cold body. "And you- you saved me. What are you doing down here?"

"I followed you," snapped Mme. Giry. "You should not be down here. I don't know what foolish thoughts were going through your mind, if any thoughts at all, but I strongly urge you never to come down here again."

"I-I'm," Claire stuttered, shivering in the cold. "Sorry."

Mme. Giry sighed, placing her arms around the shivering girl. "Come," she said, seizing her arm and leading her up the stairs. "You must take off these clothes, or you'll freeze. Come with me. Forget all you have seen."

Claire glanced back at the trap door. So, the Phantom wasn't as cold and heartless as they say, she thought. He may have been a murderer, but he's saved a life as well. How could she forget that?

"Come in here, quickly," Mme. Giry opened her daughter's dressing room door, leading Claire inside.

"What are we doing in Meg's room?" Claire asked after reading her name on the door, her skin tingling with the cold.

"We need to find you some new clothes," Mme. Giry answered simply. She began searching through Meg's dresses. "Here," she pulled one from the rack. "Take this," she said, handing it to Claire.

Claire took the light blue dress, staring at it. "I'm sopping wet."

"Here's a towel," Mme. Giry handed her a towel from the bathroom across the hall. "Dry yourself off, and get changed. They will be wondering where you are. You must never tell anyone of what just happened- do you understand?"

"Why?" asked Claire.

"I have my reasons; do as I say," Mme. Giry instructed.

"Madame?"

"Yes?" Mme Giry snapped. Claire turned her back to the woman.

"I need assistance with my corset."

"Of course," Madame Giry was in such a rush of amazement, she had forgotten about that.

She first helped the soaking girl to dry herself with the towel; then she helped her undress, and dress again in her daughter's own, dry clothing.

Claire patted her face with the towel and then attempted to dry her hair with it. Though she tried her best to dry her hair, it was still damp by the time she got changed, which took many minutes, for it is very difficult to dress in such complicated clothing.

Mme. Giry frowned, picking the damp towel from the bed and rustling it around Claire's loose hair. "I don't think it will get any drier," Claire complained.

"Very well," Madame Giry thrust the towel on the bed. "You can make a quick lie, if anyone asks about it. Come now; you're late for the reception. Remember what I told you."

"I won't breathe a word," she promised. "But I must know why," Claire's eyes fell downward, and then she stared Madame Giry in the eye. "I read the letter for you- and I saw the box." Madame Giry sighed. "Why are you helping him? Why did he call you friend? Madame Giry-"

"Silence!" Mme. Giry placed a hand on her stomach, feeling quite faint. "Please Claire, I will explain all in due time, but for now, you _must_ go to your father!"

"But, I want to know! I deserve to know the truth!"

"Now is not the time!" Mme. Giry ushered the girl out the door.

Both ladies left Meg's room, walking swiftly to the entrance hall of the theatre. Light filtered the hall throughout. Over fifty people were there, all dressed in fine attire, drinking from wine glasses and eating off of expensive plates.

"I leave you know," Mme. Giry said. Claire turned to her, a look of confusion on her face. "I have some business to attend to. Remember what I told you."

"You're going to see _him_?" Claire asked.

Mme. Giry's lips curved into a tight frown. "Speak nothing of it!" she whispered, turning on her heels, and leaving poor Claire with all her unanswered questions.

Turning back to the excellent party, Claire searched the crowd for a familiar face. She caught sight of one after only a few seconds of searching. Aubrey walked toward her, smiling.

"Where were you?" he asked, reaching her. "And why is your hair wet?"

"Oh," Claire had to think of a lie, quick. "Well, I had to take it down…a-and wet it," she stuttered. "It was far too…umm…frizzy."

"Frizzy?" Aubrey asked, baffled.

Claire gave a nervous smile. "You know how it is when the air is dry…"

"No, I don't," Aubrey shook his head, still quite unsure of what she was trying to say.

"Well the air up in the seats…it's terribly dry, and anyway, I looked dreadful…so I-I had to wet it," Claire tilted her head slightly.

"Well I think its looks fine," Aubrey said. "Can I offer you a drink?"

Claire's eyes widened. _Thank god_, she thought. "Yes- I'll come with you."

The two of them slowly made their way through the crowd of people toward the table that displayed the food and drink for the party. Aubrey poured a glass of white wine for Claire and handed it to her, and then he poured one for himself.

Claire immediately put the glass to her lips, taking in full gulps of the wine. Aubrey raised a brow, but said nothing. "Shall we?" he asked, his hand gliding to point away from the table area.

"Yes," Claire too wanted to go where it was less crowded.

She stepped quickly in front of Aubrey who looked down at the floor. A series of puddles trailed on the floor after Claire. He sighed, wondering what was with her, and then followed. He could hear a man slip and fall behind him.

They both stopped near the closed doors of the theatre. "What did you make of the opera, Claire?" asked Aubrey.

"I thought it was wonderful," she answered with a grin. "Arielle was amazing."

"Arielle?"

"She's a friend of mine," Claire stated, rolling her eyes.

"Well, your father is very pleased," said Aubrey. "It was almost a full house tonight."

"Yes, I'm quite pleased myself," Claire said, taking another sip of wine, this time more graciously. "It was quite unexpected." Claire glanced off into the distance, reflecting on all that just happened. She hadn't yet taken a moment to stop and ponder everything.

"You look quite frazzled," Aubrey stated, his voice seemed distant to Claire, and she didn't hear it through her cloud of thought. "Are you alright? Claire?"

"Hmm?" Claire turned to Aubrey, her one earring dangling. She hadn't noticed it, but her right earring had fallen out in the water trap.

Aubrey chuckled. "Never mind; what's on your mind?" he asked with a hint of concern.

"Just tonight," Claire said with a nod.

**Yay! Erik saves the day…Lol. He's so cool…Please tell me what you think. **


	8. The New Opera

**A/N: Ahoy mates! How are ye, on this fine day? Arrrr…Boy that was a tangent. Anyway, I want to take this opportunity to thank all my loyal reviewers who have reviewed every chapter and continue to enjoy (or at least read) my story. My humble thanks to you all; you guys keep the chapters coming. Well, it's Spring Break next week, and I'll be on vacation, so I won't have time to type or update any of my stories, so please forgive me for that, and please be patient. Just as a warning for the future, as this chapter came kinda late, some others may come a week or so late as well, and that's not because I'm abandoning you guys (I refuse to abandon a story!) It's because I either don't have time, or I'm getting Writer's Block. (Dun, dun, dun) By the way, if anyone has any ideas for my story or has small role characters from their stories they want me to use in here as a cameo or something (of course I'd recommend your story as well) then please say so on you reviews or drop me an email. Ok, time for responses to reviews, and then the wonderful chappie! Oh, and have a wonderful Spring Break! **

**Marie Erikson: I'm glad you're seeing things the way they're meant to be seen. All these little interactions between the characters will eventually build up, and lead to a relationship that is realistic and 'pure'; if you will. Thanks for being such a loyal reviewer. I always look forward to what you have to say! **

**Phoebe: What do you mean by odd? Thanks for the review! Oh, and yes, it was Josh Groban. I feel so bad for forgetting a disclaimer…**

**Camlann: Lol, yeah, I can see Erik torturing Claire with stuff like that. I can just imagine her face of horror as he tells her with deep emotion that he's skinned little girls alive and eats sewer rats for breakfast. Lol, maybe I'll do something like that, it all depends. Yes, Claire is quiet nosy. I model her (and Adima actually) quiet like myself. Adima's pretty nosy too. I know if I were in both girls' positions that I'd do exactly what they do in my stories. By the way, I know you've updated recently, and I'll read/review tomorrow b/c I have NO time tonight. Don't worry. **

**Imokk: Yeah, I'm really intrigued by Madame Giry's character and I'm going to explore her personality further more, and her life, later on in the story…ooohhh…That'll be fun. I'm glad you think I've got her character down. **

**Han Futsu Anti Normal: OMG, I laugh so hard every time I read your review! I loved the Superman theme and Erik taking his shirt off! I'm also glad you have such a wonderful imagination and are able to imagine things you want, even if I don't write it. Wow, I totally sounded like Mickey Mouse just then. "Use your imagination everybody!" Lol. Oh yes, I'm cool…**

**Chapter Eight: The New Opera **

"What happened down there?" Madame Giry snorted, stepping to Erik's side. He was a little taller than her, and she stared intently up into his deep green eyes.

Erik, too, had exchanged his sopping outfit for newer, dryer clothes. He wore black slacks and a white blouse with a low hanging neck. He bared his teeth at Mme. Giry's threatening words, his chest rising and falling with the deep breaths he took. It had been a long time since he'd found her this upset. "The girl followed me," he said, honestly. "She must have fallen into the pit. I heard her scream and…"

"You must have known she was following you!"

Erik shook his head, taking a step backward. "No," he muttered. "I did not know. Perhaps," he began, his tone suspicious, and then it turned vile, dripping with poison and hatred. "She is a spy!"

"She is no spy," Mme. Giry stood at Claire's defense. "I doubt you even know who she is!"

Erik thought a moment. Yes, he had recognized her voice; how could he not. "She is Mademoiselle Bonamy," he whispered, glancing downward.

"And she is not a spy, Erik," Mme. Giry explained. "You can be so paranoid sometimes. But all the same…you must be more careful, Erik. I cannot believe this has happened! She followed you all the way to the stairs! I warned her to say nothing of this to anyone, but, who knows if she can be trusted?"

"She can be trusted," Erik said, sternly. Madame Giry cocked her head.

"How do you know?"

Erik glared at Mme. Giry, as if he did not want to tell her, but he finally had no choice. "She hasn't spoken of me before, has she?" Mme. Giry shook her head. "Then, no, she will not tell anyone. She's kept a promise already."

Mme. Giry's eyes widened. "Are you telling me you've met before?" she asked, astonished.

Erik's gaze turned to the floor. "Yes," he muttered.

"When?"

"Days ago; it does not matter," said Erik. She has kept her promise; she will not disobey the two of us." Mme. Giry sighed, not knowing whether to believe him. But before she could say anything more, Erik handed her a letter in an envelope and a leather bound notebook. "You know what to do with these," he told Mme. Giry as he placed the items safely in her hands. She nodded. "Then go."

Mme. Giry turned to go, then glanced back. "Erik," she began. "Do not bother with this girl. She is the manager's daughter. Leave her alone, and she will do the same." Erik wasn't sure he believed her; he didn't know if he wanted to believe her.

He remembered the first day he had heard the girl's voice. She was singing on stage. She sang of masks and hiding. She sang of many things that touched Erik deeply. Perhaps they had more in common than met the eye.

Erik's heart beat just a little faster than normal, he did not know why, but he could feel it. "She was not afraid," he whispered, glancing at the golden mask and the mirror. "She will have no need to fear me."

"Monsieur Bonamy," Mme. Giry glided speedily towards him, an unopened letter and a leather booklet in hand.

Andre turned in her direction. "Good evening," he greeted.

"May I speak with you, in privacy, please?" Andre nodded, leaving the crowded room to stand in the hallway.

Madame Giry lowered her voice. "This is for you," she said, handing him the letter.

"Not another one," Andre grumbled, opening the envelope, reading its contents.

_Dearest Opera Manager, _

_We certainly had quite a success with the opera tonight. I am quite pleased. I do however believe that Mademoiselle Arielle's career should progress no further in that of music. I also send my gratitude for leaving box five open for my use…_

Andre glanced up at Mme. Giry with a scowl, then his eyes fell back to the letter; the woman ignored his gaze. He said nothing, but his eyes burned with rage at the woman's defiant schemes.

_I am also displeased that you have chosen to delay the payment of my salary of twenty thousand franks. If I must remind you again, I regret to say, you may suffer some horrible misfortunes. And seeing how well tonight's performance turned out, I think the amount I ask for my salary is quite gracious. _

_I also have written another opera that will be handed to you with this letter. It will be the next opera the theatre will produce, and I believe it will be quite popular. I thank you for your acceptance; but I warn, do not forget to do as I have asked. _

_-OG _

"I am to give this to you also," Mme. Giry placed the script of Erik's newest opera in Andre's hand. "What is it Monsieur?" she asked, noting the man's angered face. Andre didn't speak; he simply read the title on the cover of the opera: _Le Enfant Terrible_. It was a tragedy. Mme. Giry already knew what the letter said.

"I advise you do as he requests, Monsieur," she began. "The last time the Phantom's orders where not obeyed, we all suffered. Please Monsieur, do as he says."

"He wants _twenty thousand franks_," breathed Andre. "I will not give him that!"

"You must," Mme. Giry said, calmly. "I beg of you, Monsieur. It would be for the benefit of us all."

Andre sighed, his cheeks flushing with heated anger. "Very well," he spat. "But I cannot get the money now- he will have to wait a few days."

"I will be sure he gets it," Madame Giry promised.

"Madame Giry," Andre stopped her as she sated to turn away. "Can I trust you?"

"You can, Monsieur; I have been doing this for years." With that, she turned her back on her manager, her eyes meeting for a split second with Claire's, who had been watching them talk the entire time.

Andre let out a deep sigh, not knowing what to do. He figured he should consult with his daughter before making any final decisions. He knew not what she might say to him, but he was sure she would have some reflections for his thoughts; she always had.

There she was now, with Aubrey. They made a good pair, he thought, watching them. He pinched at the envelope in his hand, glancing down at the leather-bound script in the other. Another sigh was released, and his shoulders shrunk with the weight of all that loomed on his mind; that which Claire did know, and that which he had chosen to hide from her.

Claire bit her lips, glancing down at the floor. She tapped her foot on the marble floor, and brought her head back up. With a grimace, she pinched her ear with two fingers and groaned when she felt no earring there. _It must have fallen off in the water, she thought,_ rolling her eyes. She had wondered why that ear had felt so bare.

Aubrey's brow furrowed. "What happened to your earring?" he asked.

Claire looked at him. "I'm not sure," she mumbled. "There is no need to attract attention," she said with a forced smile. "It's just an earring," she dropped her hand to her side, her gaze following.

Aubrey lifted her head by placing his hand on Claire's chin and drawing it upwards. At first Claire's eyes widened in surprise, then her insides squirmed, and she felt her cheeks go red. She couldn't help but shift her gaze to meet his. She drew them away as quickly as their eyes met.

Aubrey drew back his hand, feeling a little surprised himself. Clearing his throat and taking a step backward and then forward again, he said, "Claire, you look frightened. You've made excuses as to say to me that you wetted your hair because of its appearance, and now you notice that an earring is missing. Perhaps it is none of my business at all," he sighed. "But is there something wrong- something strange going on?"

"It is none of your business," Claire scoffed, her words trembling. "And how dare you call me a liar! I am a lady, Monsieur, not a poison-tongued snake. I assure you that what has happened tonight has nothing to do with strange occurrences, and that if there was something askew, it would be my business and my business alone."

Aubrey swallowed. "I meant not to offend you…" he said, sheepishly.

Claire lowered her eyes. "Oh, don't fret Aubrey," she said slowly. "I know you meant no harm by it," she sighed. "Here," she glided her hand outward, glancing around the room at all the smiling faces and ignorant peoples who were enjoying the night's peaceful splendor. "It is a night to be celebrated," she began. "Let us not weigh down our minds to such…such _persona_l talk," she said, for lack of a better word.

She probably could have thought of something better if offered more time, but Claire had no time to think. She just wanted to change the topic as quickly as possible, no matter to what or why. Claire felt that her cheeks were still hot; hot with anger and coyness.

She blinked, trying to keep her mind from wandering. She couldn't help but wonder about the man who'd just saved her life. So many questioned formed in her mind, but she doubted they would be easily answered. Madame Giry hadn't wanted to speak much of it, and one question was why? And it seemed extremely odd that Mme. Giry just so happened to follow Claire and was there to aid in her rescue. And why did the Phantom mention they were friends? Claire shook the thoughts from her head, closing her eyes.

Aubrey watched her in silence. What was she thinking of? He had some questions of his very own.

**Sorry, that's all the Erik for now…he gets tired after an appearance and needs his 'rest'…He'll be back in the morning. (Smiles) Please review and he'll come back sooner, and be extra grateful! **


	9. The Mirror

**A/N: Ok Emily, and all my other readers, here is the next chapter. If you checked on my URL, I mentioned that I had written this chapter, but my beta was taking a while reading it, so sorry about the long wait. I don't have time to reply to all of your wonderful reviews right now, but I want to thank everyone for reviewing. **

**Emily: Sorry it took me so long. All your questions should be answered by the end of this story, and yes, you are led to believe Aubrey's brother was murdered…we'll just see how that story unfolds…Erik doesn't think Claire's friend, Arielle, has the talent he wants to be present in his theatre. He wants these operas to be amazing, and her voice just isn't, plus, he's a sour-puss. Lol. **

**Chapter Nine: The Mirror **

Claire twisted the long auburn strand of hair with her delicate fingers. Her features were aglow in the soft gas lights that clung to her bedroom wall.

The young woman's fingers swiftly glided to her ear, and she took out her last earring with care, all the while fixing her eyes upon her reflection in the mirror. She laid it down upon her dresser with a sigh. _They were a beautiful pair_, she thought of her jewelry. _It is a shame I've lost its companion. _But she thought it better to not have lost her life that night.

It was certainly not her first brush with death, Claire remembered, but it was the most fascinating. The thought of the infamous opera phantom rescuing her from drowning captivated her, as it would any young woman, she supposed.

Then a frown came to her soft pink lips. "How foolish I was," she said to herself aloud. Then she thought, _I shouldn't need to be rescued; how clumsy and ignorant I must have appeared_. With that, she blushed, embarrassed all of a sudden by her ineptness to remain the lady her father had so wished she would someday become.

He was a good man, she knew, and did not pressure her much. Though it frequently frightened him to watch his daughter grow to be so like his late wife. Claire reminded him of her so well, she was like a younger version of the woman he once vowed to love forever; and he still did.

She should be grateful, he often told her, but in his heart he doubted it. Andre blamed himself for Claire not being wed. He had wanted her to marry many years before this, but had promised himself to let his daughter take her time- now he knew she was taking too much of it. He feared she would never find love, or a proper husband.

Andre Bonamy stood facing the giant mirror in his own room. He glanced at his reflection with dismay. With his room filled with a soft yellow light, he could see clearly the creases and lines that marked his face; a reminder of his inclining age.

He frowned, and then suddenly felt something build in his chest. His frown quickly faded away and his chest heaved as he let out a mighty cough. His shoulders and chest lurched forward towards the mirror and he instantly reached for a soft white handkerchief from his jacket pocket.

Several more muffled coughs sounded, his lips pressed tightly into the wet cloth. As he pulled it away when the coughing storm had faded, he noticed the crimson stains of blood on the pearl cloth. His lips turned to a frown again. Time was running short, he knew, for him and his daughter.

"A suitor must be found," he remembered the words his brother, a doctor living in Paris had once told him. "She needs someone to fall back on when…" Ben had stopped himself. "You must find Claire a husband as soon as possible, Andre. You mustn't leave her alone when all your time is gone."

Andre hated the bluntness of his brother's words, which were quite cold in his hardened heart, but he did find truth in them. That is precisely who he saw in Aubrey- a suitor. A suitor with wealth, and a heart for the theatre. It was a blessing from God, Andre thought, and he only had to play his cards right to convince his stubborn daughter to marry the man and his worries would be almost over. Dr. Ben Bonamy had sad little about his illness for he knew little of it, but he told Andre he could live for weeks, or he could live for years, he just needed to be prepared for the worst.

_Prepared,_ Andre scoffed, smirking at himself in the mirror. He hadn't even told his precious daughter the truth yet. No, he was not prepared; he didn't know when he would be.

His thoughts were suddenly interrupted as his daughter pushed his bedroom door open and let herself inside, a worried expression on her milk-white face. Her soft brow furrowed. "What is it Father?" she asked, gliding over to his side. "Are you alright?"

Andre spoke quickly, "I'm fine," he lied, taking a seat on his bed. "Just a little cough."

"A little cough," Claire murmured. "That has been haunting you for weeks. Have you talked to Uncle Ben of this?"

"It is nothing," her father assured her. "I have always been susceptible to illness, as you know."

Claire frowned; it was true. Her father often grew ill, most of his sicknesses he blamed on the death of her mother. Could others, Claire wondered, have been perhaps from all the sorts of intoxicants he had soaked in at the local opium dens and brothels, which she knew he frequented quiet often, though he thought himself as sneaky as a shadow and thought his wanderings had gone on unnoticed.

Claire didn't know why she couldn't face her father about the matters, but she just couldn't, and so she never had. She'd certainly warned Margaret about it, and the maid had said it was as natural as breathing for men, so Claire hid her findings from her father and tried to ignore them. "You haven't answered me yet," Claire frowned.

Andre glanced up at her. How long would he be able to hide the truth form her? His gaze turned to his reflection in the mirror, and he shifted his seat on the bed uncomfortably. "Claire," he began, his heart heavy. Suddenly he changed his mind. "It is a cold, I think," he said. "But it is not all that bad," he could see the worry in his daughter's warm eyes.

She took a seat on the bed beside him, taking his hands in hers and smiling up at him softly. "What can I do?" she asked, softly.

Her father smiled. "All you can do is for yourself, now," he told her. "I grow old…"

Claire raised her voice, "You are twice my age!" she announced. "That is not so old."

"Bless you, Claire," Andre said, smiling, "but perhaps my body is tired and old, even if time has not caught up with it." Claire looked at her father, not quite understanding.

Andre lifted his hand from hers and patted her open palm, gently. "But before time will ever have me," he vowed, "we will find you a husband."

"A husband?" Claire drew her hands away. "Father forgive me, I am confused. Once moment you speak of illness and death, and the next you tell me I must find a husband…"

"Do you not want one?" Andre asked.

"I-I do," Claire looked at her feet; her toes barley touched the wooden floor. "I know you grow impatient, Father," she sighed.

"And for good reasons," he added.

Claire twisted her fingers around each other with discomfort. "I do wish to be wed," she finally said. "But to the right man."

"What do you think of young Asthore?"

Somehow, Claire knew this question would fall from her father's lips, she knew it. "I think little of him," she said honestly. Why was Andre's family so blunt all the time? Claire noted the dreary expression on her father's face. "But I've hope for him," she added with a smile. "He- he is kind."

Andre's frown quickly faded into a smile that lit his face. He looked five years younger. "Aubrey would be an excellent match for you, Claire," he said, hopefully.

Claire kissed her father's temple, softly. "Perhaps someday," she said, standing. "Now I must undress and prepare for bed. Margaret is waiting in my room. I shall see you in the morning, Father."

"Sleep well," her father called softly after her.

Claire winced slightly as her maid tugged at the stretched laces of her pale cream corset. "I didn't expect you to be returning home in an entirely new gown," Margaret said with a smile as Claire held onto the sides of her mirror tightly, trying to steady her balance as her maid gave another sharp tug.

"Are you tying this corset or untying it?" she asked, impatient, her ribs aching.

"Untying it," Margaret answered. "My apologies Mademoiselle, this one seems to want to stay attached to you forever."

Claire smiled. "Why must we poor women dress in such horrible clothing?" she complained. Margaret grinned, but said nothing.

"There," Claire heaved a giant sigh as her maid lifted the opened corset off her body.

Margaret gave her a night gown to dress in for sleep, and her mistress quickly put it on. Claire strayed towards the window, sitting on its windowsill. It was a large window that came only three feet from the ground.

Margaret followed her with a brush in hand, and as Claire stared out the window, lost in her own thoughts, her maid brushed out the tangles and bumps in her hair, which was exceptionally difficult that night. "Your head is damp," the maid said, astounded. Before Claire could think of a reply, Margaret found one for her. "If it rains Claire," she was scolding, "You should wear a hat, or use an umbrella. You are a young lady, not a tree, to stand in the streets wet and naked."

"My apologies," Claire said with a sweet smile. She would leave Margaret to her assumptions; she was tired of lying to everyone that evening.

She sighed deeply, closing her eyes. Her room smelled of fresh scents: the sweet perfume her father had doted upon her earlier that afternoon in celebration, the clear scent of roses lingering in the air… It must have come from Margaret's perfume; Andre had given her that as well. It was strange for her father to be so kind to a servant, Claire thought, but perhaps Andre was changing. Perhaps his spirit had lightened with the highness of the evening.

"He means to see me wed," Claire breathed, eyes fixed upon the dancing leaves on the black silhouette of trees outside her window. Margaret said nothing, but stroked Claire's hair gently. "He really wants it; perhaps more than I do."

It is then that her maid spoke, and with gentleness in her voice. "Claire," she said. "It would be good for you to marry. Weddings are happy occasions, and you can't possibly fear one."

"It's not that I fear a wedding, Margaret," Claire opened her eyes and looked at her maid. "I fear _who_ I will wed."

"Does your father have someone in mind?" Margaret was quick to ask. When Claire answered with a 'yes' and a sigh, she gave her a simple answer. "I know little of love, Claire; I will admit to you that. Perhaps I will never know it," her eyes lowered with sadness, but she wouldn't allow it to get the best of her. "But I do believe that you are capable of love, and Aubrey is capable of it as well, though I know you doubt his intentions."

"How do you know this? And how do you know my father thinks of Aubrey as my suitor?" Claire asked, bewildered, turning her head.

"Hold steady," the maid scolded, turning Claire's head back to look out the window with her soft hands. Then she answered. "I am not a fool, Claire," she said, simply. "Who else would your father think of? He thinks well of the boy's mother, and the apple falls not far from the tree," she quoted the famous saying. "He may be a good man, for all we know," she continued. "Perhaps the reason you resent him so, is that you fear commitment, and loss," Claire thought of the loss her father had suffered for so many years; the loss of her mother. The maid struck a harsh and terrible truth: Claire feared loss; it was only natural for her.

"I do not resent him," Claire stated, turning her head again, only for it to be turned back to look out the window. The night was calm and dark, with soft and soothing winds. "I just…" her voice trailed off. "I don't know, Margaret. Perhaps this is foolish but…"

"But what?" Margaret asked as Claire quieted. The maid lowered the brush, she was done now, and Claire was thankful for it. She faced Margaret with hope in her eyes. Margaret's heart took a heavy sigh as she stared into those hopeful and glittering eyes.

"Father used to tell me, when he did speak of my mother, that…that he loved my mother the moment he saw her. He called it true love- love at first sight. It always amazed me. Now I don't know if love can be that way, coming to someone so fast they hardly knew what hit them; it certainly hasn't happened for me." Margaret frowned, feeling sorry for Claire, whose eyes had dulled in sadness much like her own. Claire took her friend's hand in her own and offered a decent smile. "Fairy tales," she spoke softly. "My father told me fairy tales to give me hope, didn't he?"

"I don't know," Margaret shook her head. She could only have been thirty, or thirty-five, Claire thought, and probably too old now to find a good husband.

She ignored that thought. "Someday," she said, her smile and eyes brightening at the thought. "We will both of us be wed, and to wonderful, charming, handsome men."

Margaret's eyes twinkled. "And rich," she added with a chuckle.

"Yes," Claire agreed. "But for now," she covered her mouth as she yawned. "I do believe we should both be sleeping. Goodnight, Margaret."

"Sleep well Claire," Margaret said as she exited the room, shutting the door softly behind her.

Claire lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Her eyes were weak in the dark, and she could hardly make out the shapes of the furniture in her room as she turned on her side, bringing the warm covers up to her chin and sighing softly. "I know little of love either," she said to herself quietly. "But I know I will find it." With that thought still fresh in her hopeful mind, Claire found sleep, and in her sleep, dreams.

**Ok, please review! Thanks! **


	10. La Carlotta

**A/N: Hello everyone! Sorry this took so long to update, but I'm really busy, and writing two fanfics here, so please be patient. I do have wonderful news for you, though! Are you ready? Ok, here it goes…This is the last 'non-Erik/Claire chapter'. As of my next update, things will start to happen, and that's when the fun really starts. I know a lot of readers have stopped reading my story (shame on them) because they find it boring, but trust me, it will be worth it in the end, because I'm taking the time to make this story actually realistic and I don't think Erik would automatically be drawn to Claire for no apparent reason, so I needed some time for him to get to know her and what she's all about before he starts to want to be…friendlier…So cheers to all my faithful readers! And for all you ppl reading and not reviewing, please review! I'm writing this story for you, so please tell me what you think! Thanks, and happy reading! **

**-Modesty **

**Emily: As always, I appreciate you numerous, endless reviews, lol. What would happen if Erik tried Opium? I'm not sure, I'd bet my money that it's be very interesting! If Andre died, then yes, Claire would inherit the opera house. Erik's opinion on that may be somewhat complicated and it depends on how their relationship goes up to that point. But have no fear, it will all begin shortly. **

**Camlann: Yes, Andre is full of disasters…he's a walking disaster really, only not so much in a comical way- oh well. We'll have to see how Claire deals. Yes, Claire is an optimist, which will be strange considering that's a complete opposite of Erik, which is even stranger b/c that's almost exactly the same as Adima and Tristan! Wow…there's a connection there…By the way, I'm glad you liked my last chapter. I feel bad b/c it was so short, but I was having writer's block, and I couldn't explain in full detail what Tristan and Adima did together. Oh well…the next ones should be longer. **

**Marianne Brandon: I hope your happy, b/c the next chapter will have more Erik/Claire wonderfulness, and after that, it will only get better. Yeah, it kinda is like Moulin Rouge (which I LOVE, by the way.) With your tip, you seemed to have read my mind. –Grins- **

**Starnat: Yeah, in my dreams too. Lol. **

**Serena Fae: I would love to IM you, but I'm not allowed, and I don't have IM, but thanks for the offer anyway, and thanks for the review! **

**Chapter Ten: La Carlotta **

"They brought her back!" Arielle shrieked in anguish. Both Adeline and Claire turned to her, Claire dropped her finger to her waist; it had been wrapping itself tightly around a long curl of her hair as she told Adeline of what she dreamed the night before. They were backstage, and the sun had risen only three ours before. "I can't believe it!"

"Believe it," Adeline said, bluntly.

"I'm sorry, Arielle," Claire said with sympathy. "None of us really like Carlotta."

"But Monsieur Bonamy hires her," the poor girl cried, her face red as a rose. "She is a better singer than I."

Adeline scoffed, "no, Arielle. A yowling kitten has a better voice than that toad!"

"Oh, you say that just to please me," Arielle said, softly. "Well, I am a dancer to begin with, and I shall remain one forever."

"At least you are allowed onstage," Claire offered. "Think of the glory you earned in _Le Rouge Fevriar._ It was magnificent."

"It is over."

"Yes, for now," Claire admitted. "But it was a grand adventure when it lasted, was it not?"

"It was," Arielle muttered under her breath. But she only wished it could last forever. Claire frowned, feeling sorry for her. Was it better to catch a glimpse of freedom and lose it, or to never have had it at all?

Her thoughts were suddenly interrupted as Madame Giry brushed by. "Madame!" Claire padded up beside her, her friends watching her with bafflement.

Mme. Giry slowed her pace, but did not stop. She turned to the young Bonamy with an expressionless face. "Bonjour," she said.

"Good morning, Madame," Claire greeted politely. "I was hoping you weren't busy, Madame. I have some questions to ask you."

"Perhaps I have answers for you then," she replied, simply.

"I know you don't want to speak of it," Claire began.

Mme. Giry held out a hand as if to stop her. "And I will not," she said. They were walking towards the stage and as soon as they were out of earshot of anyone else, Mme. Giry stopped and faced the curious girl.

"Madame, please-"

"No, Mademoiselle; ask me questions of relating to dance and I will help you, but never about _him_."

"Madame," Claire began sternly. "I know I gave you a promise, but this is my father's theatre…"

"And this is his life!" the words bolted form the woman's lips. "And he does not wish to share it with you, nor anybody else. I wish you'd drop the matter entirely."

"I cannot do that, Madame," Claire blocked the woman's path as Mme. Giry tried to walk away from her. "Please Madame; tell me, I must know the truth. I want to know what you know."

"Then you will learn nothing, for that is all I know."

"You speak falsely," Claire studied the woman's frustrated expression accusingly. "I know you know him, he called you a friend in his letter."

Mme. Giry puffed her cheeks out with rage and her face reddened. "Mademoiselle," she tried to walk around Claire, but the girl wouldn't let her by. "Let me pass!"

"Don't Madame," Claire said to her, as the older woman turned on her heels. "I will not stop asking you." Mme. Giry sighed, and turned to face Claire, her expression grave. "You are acquainted, aren't you?" Mme. Giry did not answer, but Claire could see the truth in her bold, grey eyes. "I have a right to know, do I not?" she assumed. "He saved my life, and he haunts my father's theatre- I should know all I can about him. Why do you deny me this knowledge?"

"It is a cursed knowledge," Mme. Giry snapped. "Perhaps it is in your right to know," she admitted softly, "but that does not change my mind." She could see the disdain on the young girl's face. Mme. Giry's cold eyes calmed, and she took a deep breath.

"But why can't you tell me? Is it because he is a murderer?"

Mme. Giry's eyes grew suddenly wild. "Where did you hear that?" she gasped.

"Em-" she stopped herself abruptly. "Everyone knows that," she said, matter-of-factly.

"I suppose you take it lightly," Mme. Giry suggested.

"I do not!" Claire denied, recognizing that it was an insult.

"And it shouldn't be taken lightly," Mme. Giry snapped. "For it is a very serious matter, involving very strange circumstances, which do not involve the manager, and owner's only daughter."

"Then think of me not as Claire Bonamy, Madame, for I must know the truth. I have been pulled into something now that I cannot be relieved of," Claire complained.

"You have your curiosity to thank for that," Mme. Giry scolded. "Don't let it get the better of you again."

Madame Giry was about to walk away, when Claire said, "Madame, I am not afraid of him."

The woman stared at her with awe. "He should frighten you. He frightens all others."

"Well I am not they," Claire said softly. "And I am not afraid as they may be. Call me foolish or call me bold, but-"

"I'd call you foolish," Mme. Giry interrupted. Why wouldn't this girl leave her be?

"Will you give me nothing then?" Claire asked. "No information at all? You will leave me to my assumptions? Or perhaps you will leave me to discuss the matter with my father," Claire coked her head as she said this. She had the woman by the hand now- Madame Giry could not lie to her anymore. She knew the woman held more information than she was giving, which really was none.

"He would not believe you," Mme. Giry snapped sharply. "And if he did, would you tell him that you were down in the depths of the opera house? He would not like that, I assume. Claire frowned, she was right. And she would never go back on her word. Who had who by the hand now? "Claire," Mme. Giry spoke softly, her lips seemingly burdened with every word she said. "You are bright, and young, and beautiful, and have much to live for." The storm in her eyes had ceased, and the oceans in them had calmed to a soft blue. "Do not throw all that away, by meddling in affairs that should not be meddled with."

"Madame," Claire spoke softly then too. "I have said I am not afraid. Just tell me, please. I want to see who you see in the Phantom of the Opera."

The storm seemed to rise again in Madame Giry's eyes. "No, you don't," she breathed. Without another word, she took her leave, and Claire let her. Mademoiselle Bonamy just stared blankly after the woman as she left and disappeared around a corner of the stage. She could not win.

Angrily, Claire rushed across the stage, paying little attention to all else around her. La Carlotta was still singing to her right, and the maestro guided her through song, as the chorus backed her up at certain parts of the song, and her little poodle snapped at Claire's heels, skipping past her. Claire huffed, frustrated with the little beast.

She looked upward, trying to ignore it, when she suddenly heard a screeching _yelp_, and felt soft paws beneath her feet. Carlotta nearly choked on her own breath as she spun around, horror painted all over her face. "No, no, no!" she exclaimed, furious, as the tiny lap dog scurried over to her master. Carlotta picked the dog up and cradled her in her arms.

Piangi stood beside her, and Carlotta quickly shoved the poodle in his arms, and started for Claire. The young girl froze, oh, she had done it now. "What is wrong with you?" Carlotta snapped. "You dare hurt my little puppy! You dare! Maestro, Maestro!" she shouted to the poor white-haired man that stood, rubbing his gloved hand across his heated forehead. "Do something with this girl, before she kills my doggie!"

Claire opened her mouth to apologize, but another voice answered. "She meant nothing by it," Adeline glided to her friend's side, protectively. "Carlotta, keep that stupid rat off the stage, and out of everyone else's way and perhaps she will not get under someone's feet!"

Carlotta gasped, her jaw dropping to the floor, her eyes wide as windows. She pointed to Claire and Adeline and shrieked, "You!" as she rushed towards them.

"I'm so sorry, Signora," Claire breathed, backing up.

Piangi stood between them, still hugging the poodle to his chest. He was facing the Prima Donna. He spoke swiftly to her in Italian, while Claire and Adeline just glanced at each other in shock.

Carlotta huffed and puffed in anger, but eventually Piangi's words started to calm her. She grabbed the poodle from his arms and petted it softly, glaring at the girls. "Don't touch my doggie again!" she shouted, threateningly as she turned around, speaking softly to the dumbfounded dog.

Piangi sighed, glaring at Claire. "Watch you step next time!" he admonished.

"Come, Claire," Adeline took her friend by the hand, leading her to the wing of the stage. "Goodness, Claire," Adeline breathed, excitedly. "Of all the things we could have done to bother her, I give you credit for one of the best tricks."

"It wasn't a trick," Claire assured her. "The dog ran right under my feet."

Adeline was smiling brightly, she did not believe her. "Well, it was magnificent. Too bad it's not enough to make her leave."

"That would be nice, wouldn't it?" Claire asked.

"Yes," Adeline agreed with haste. "But I don't think we'll ever get that woman to leave- and believe me, there have been attempts."

"By whom? Claire asked, giddily.

"Well, wether you believe it or not, I think it was the Phantom. He bothers her too," both girls smiled at that thought.

"Perhaps he needs to try harder," Claire teased.

Adeline shook her head. "No, not even that would do. The woman will be dead before she gives up the spotlight."

Erik smiled slightly as he eavesdropped on the girls' most entertaining conversation. There was a tiny crooked hole, a crack of some sort, that stretched out a few inches down the wall behind the stage and the Opera Ghost stood, watching all the commotion in his opera house with pleasure, and jealousy the same.

If only he could be there, like the rest of them: beautiful and in the open. In his youth, he had spent countless hours dreaming of life lived without loneliness, without his horrifying appearance, but as he aged, and grew wiser, he began to realize that his fate and exclusion was inevitable. He would never be like _them_. Never- he was _unique_, and he loathed himself for it.

But as he stood there, listening with keen ears, he reminded himself the true reason he was still alive. It was not for company, it was not for companionship, nor love or hate. It was for the Opera Populaire; it was for his work; his operas, his costumes, his music. He was alive because of it- but not forever, he thought with a sigh. He was nearly halfway through with Don Juan Triumphant, and that would be his last piece, the finale to his life's work and dedication to none other than himself, and his work, for it was all he really knew.

He knew nothing of the outside world, nothing of love, little of kindness. He had only been a boy when he found himself in that dark embrace that became his home for all eternity; his house by the lake, under the Opera Populaire. It had become a part of him, just as the influence of the opera had.

Claire and Adeline tried their best to speak amongst themselves loud enough to be heard over the belting music that poured from La Carlotta's lips. She raised her voice to an extreme pitch. Stage hands were moving set pieces behind her. Gabrielle, the chorus master worked with his pupils as they and Carlotta sang in harmony.

They had been speaking of all sorts of things, particularly what Claire thought of Aubrey. She told Adeline of the events of the night before; what her father told her. "So will do as your father wishes? If Aubrey asks, will you marry him?"

"My father has no say in it," Claire said, simplistically. "He promised me."

"Claire," Adeline began, sweetly. "I was thinking, though it really isn't my business…"

"Well, what is it?" Claire asked.

"Why was it so important for you to speak with Mme. Giry just a while ago? I mean, you ran after her, and I watched you. You seemed so strange- is everything alright?"

"Yes, it is," Claire lied. "I just had, questions for her, that's all; nothing important."

Adeline was too smart to believe her. "Alright then," she smiled. "Keep your secrets. I'll speak of them no more!"

"Good," Claire smiled. "Oh, you should go, Adeline," she said, her expression changing. "The rest of the dancers in your group are leaving with Madame Giry."

Adeline frowned. "Oh, time to rehearse, is it?" she asked, annoyed. "Well, it was nice talking with you, Claire. I'll see you tomorrow." She left with a smile, and followed Mme. Giry, and the rest of the ballet students for practice.

Claire glanced around her nervously. She acquired a strange sensation that someone was watching her, though she thought she was the only one there. She leaned her back against the wall with a sigh, looking down the hallway. She looked left, and she looked right, and when she looked left again, she felt a fire in her blood.

She grew angry- angry at Mme. Giry for keeping secrets from her. She had a right to know, didn't she? Why was it so important that these secrets be kept? Surely she must know, at least for her father's sake- this was _his_ opera house now, she didn't care what anyone else thought. "I'll find out for myself," she mumbled aloud, lifting her back from the wall.

"Claire."

Claire spun around. Where did that come from? That voice; she knew she heard it. It was a whisper, but she knew she heard it; it wasn't all in her head. Claire swallowed hard, her eyes darting all about in fear, then she stared down the hallway- it was empty, and silent. An eerie sensation washed over her, and her blood ran cold.

**A/N: Ok, now pretty, pretty please, review! Thanks. **


	11. The Chapel

**A/N: Sorry this took so long. I was brain dead, and my beta was sick, and now I think I'm getting sick too, which really sucks. Anyways, it'll be a week or so before the next update, so sorry for the wait, but I've been really buys lately. I hope you all enjoy the chapter…it has Erik in it, and the Erik/Claire thing is about to begin. It actually starts in this chapter. Also, there's kinda two parts to this scene, but together they'd be long, so I just split them up. Please review! Thanks. By the way, le infant terrible, in French, basically means, the outcast, or the troublemaker. **

**Camlann: Yeah, Mme. Giry needs to know how to hold her tongue, especially in the situation she's in with Erik. **

**Imokk: Oh, yeah. She'll never expect all that she gets! Neither will you! Lol. **

**Marie Erikson: Prelude isn't boring! Thanks for the review though. I feel a little bit better now. Lol. Here's that Erik/Claire-ness you've been waiting for…and it gets so much better! I can't wait to start writing the chapters where they get to know each other more! Oh, this story hasn't even begun… **

**Chapter 11: The Chapel **

"Aubrey, what do you think of the girl?" Mme. Asthore asked as she sipped her porcelain cup of tea. She sat on a light green couch; Aubrey stood pacing back and forth beside her.

"Oh, I like her," he said, nervously.

"Of course, when you're married," his mother continued, resting the cup on the silver tray that was placed on a wooden table in front of her. She glanced up at her son. "You are inclined, and expected to have a mistress or two."

Aubrey didn't know if he should smile or frown at the comment. "Once I'm married, Mother, I will want to change."

"Change?" Mme. Asthore scoffed. "Darling, if you are anything like your brother was, you will not change for this girl! Nor _any_ girl, for that matter."

"But I'm different now, Mother. She makes me different. There's just something, something about her."

"I do not doubt that, my son," Mme. Asthore agreed. "If you think can be responsible enough to care for a wife, which I do encourage…"

Aubrey quit pacing and faced his mother, his wavy hair falling almost to his shoulders. "I can be," he said, not knowing if it was true or not. Yes, he would try, but he could scarcely imagine being with one woman for the rest of his life.

"She is a little old for a marriage," Mme. Asthore trailed off. "How old did Andre say she was? Twenty-one! If I had known that before, I would have never allowed you two to meet. Perhaps there is something wrong with her."

"It doesn't matter. There is nothing wrong with Claire, Mother," Aubrey jumped to her defense. "Her father promised not to pressure her into any marriages. The girl has a bold heart, Mother."

"How would you know?" his mother scoffed.

"Well, she told me what her father had promised, and I can see it in her heart that the girl has a mind of her own." shouted Aubrey, growing impatient with his mother.

Madame Asthore took another sip of tea. Aubrey had silenced her, if only for a moment. "It is your marriage," she finally said to him. "I only offer my counsel."

Aubrey's brow furrowed. Did he really want this? "I shall consider a proposal," he muttered, looking down at the floor. "Time will help me decided.

Mme. Asthore shook her head in dismay once her son had gone. "What am I to do with that boy?" she asked herself quietly.

She wasn't sure anymore if her son should wed such a free-spirited girl, whose father let her choose her groom. _My son is a well brought up man, _she thought. _And I suppose he has the right to choose…_ No matter how her thoughts tormented her, Mme. Asthore could not decide if she would be pleased with Aubrey's proposal or not.

_Little Claire's smile lit up her entire face. She sat in a row of wooden seats next to her father; they were in the first theatre Monsieur Andre owned. _

_They were watching an auburn haired woman singing on stage, dressed in a beautiful golden gown, rehearsing for an opera. "Someday," Claire began, leaning closer to her father. "I'm going to sing like Mama." _

"_Yes you are," Andre grinned at his only daughter. "And you're going to be wonderful." _

"_Madame Adrienne says I'm her best student," Claire said proudly. _

"_I'm sure you are, Claire," her father said. "And with more practice, someday, you will make your mother and I very proud." _

"_I will," the young Claire promised with a grin; one of her teeth was missing. _

_Suddenly, the woman on stage stopped singing. She took a deep breath, closing her eyes. She opened them again. "Angeline?" Andre called out with a worried expression. The maestro stopped the music. _

_Angeline smiled, embarrassed. "I'm fine," she lied, glancing at her daughter. "Maestro…" the music began again. _

_Just as Angeline opened her mouth to sing again, she closed it, shutting her eyes with pain. She clutched her chest with her hand. "Angeline!" Andre leaped from his seat, running toward her as she fell. _

_Little Claire stared in wonder. A nearby stage hand rushed over to her, as she watched her father take his wife's hand in his own. Was he crying? _

"_What's happened?" the little girl asked as the stage hand lifted her into his arms. _

"_Call a doctor!" someone shouted from on stage. _

_The stage hand glanced at the maestro. "I'm taking her home!" he said, leaving the theatre with Claire clinging to him. _

"_No!" Claire cried, knowing something was wrong, but not knowing what. She was too young to understand… _

"_Poor child," the house maid said softly to the other. _

"_Has she even left her room?" asked the second. _

"_No," the first shook her head. _

_The second clucked her tongue with disapproval. "Poor, poor thing." Claire opened her door a crack, listening intently to their conversation, though she could not see them. _

_The first maid sat down on the emerald green sofa with a sigh. "Monsieur Andre had better return from the hospital tonight," she began. "He can't leave his daughter like this. She has no idea what happened." _

"_He won't tell her," the second maid said with a frown. "He hasn't even walked in the door since the accident." _

"_That girl needs her father," the first maid nodded towards Claire's bedroom. _

"_Poor Claire," said the second. "I've seen the world's sorrow in that little girl's eyes. Andre must see to her. She doesn't deserve to be abandoned like this," the red haired woman shook her head. _

_Claire felt tears rise in her eyes. She sniffed, letting them fall, putting up no fight against them. Where were her parents? Where was her mother? What had put the maids in such distraught moods in the recent days? _

Claire was watching her father from afar, remembering the dream that had haunted her the night before. Her fingers pranced delicately across the pearl white keys of the piano. Its coal black surface gleamed vibrantly under the light. She looked down at the keys, and at her fingers as they danced, and every now and then, she would glance up toward the couch.

Andre Bonamy paid no attention to his daughter as she played for him. His eyes were glued to the numerous sheets of paper before him. They were manager's papers, papers that concerned only his eyes. He had been reading the script for _Le Infant Terrible_, but he had set that down on the table near the couch, and had finished looking at it.

"How's the opera?" Claire asked, glancing up at her father as she played.

He didn't even look at her. "It's fine, I suppose," he said, not admitting the true genius behind the piece he had been reading. He wanted to hate it, for he hated everything from the Opera Ghost, but he couldn't help but be captivated by the opera, the music, the writing, and the talent. He would be dead before he'd ever admit so, even to his daughter.

"What is it about?" Claire inquired.

Andre cleared his throat and finally looked up at her. "Oh, just a- a story about this, this boy who is," he picked up the leather bound script and looked over its cover with hidden admiration. "Shunned by society because of his parents' fortune, and he…he becomes a murderer."

Claire frowned. "A murderer?"

"Yes," her father said, casually. "Following his parent's footsteps. He became the monster society had said he would be." He set the script down again and resumed looking over his other papers. "I'm a little apprehensive though, for I've never put on an opera of such…drama," he admitted. "It is a rather dark play."

Claire's fingers tapped the keys again, as if her finger tips weighed more than they did. "Well," she began. "There's no harm in being different."

"Claire," her father asked, wearily. Claire looked up at him, his eyes were cold, and grave. "Do you know what day it is?" Claire nodded, without a word. She knew exactly what day it was; the anniversary of her mother's death. Her father seemed content, for he said nothing more of it.

Andre gave a muffled cough, raising a closed fist to cover his mouth. His daughter glanced up immediately at him, but said nothing. "What are you playing?" he asked her, calmly.

"The Promise," she answered, in a mystified tone.

"It's beautiful," he said, followed by another pair of coughs. By the time he was done, Claire could see a stain of blood on his fingers, and she cringed. She lifted her fingers from the keys and stood, her hands falling to her sides. "What are you doing?" Andre asked, concerned.

Claire breathed hard. "There's something I must do," she said. "Pardon my leave."

As she climbed into the black carriage and found her seat on a small leather bench, Claire whispered to herself. "Please, Mother Mary," she said quietly. "Please help us." She couldn't get the image out of her mind, the image of her father, with blood dripping down his palm. Her blood froze.

The carriage stopped just outside the Opera Populaire. There was no church nearby that Claire knew of, so this, she assumed, would be the next best place to pray.

It didn't take long for her to open the front doors, which was possible because she had slipped the key in her fingers on the way out of the house, taking it from its usual place on the front table near the door of their house. She walked past the entrance hall, and found the cold, dark hallway she was searching for. It led to a small set of steps, and as she made her way down, she felt a cold draft, cold as ice. She shivered, and pulled her cream shawl tighter across her shoulders.

She finally found what she was looking for, a door. She placed her hand on the rusted door handle, and turned the knob. The door opened with a _click_, and Claire found herself in an all too familiar room. Candlelight washed into the room, and the colorful glass painting on the window across the room seemed to have a vibrant glow that caught her eye.

She closed the door behind her, and glided toward the candles that sat, perched on a table against the wall. Upon the wall hung a picture of the Virgin Mary, smiling down on Claire with warmth upon her lips.

Claire kneeled at the foot of the table and began her prayers, folding her hands just above her lap, and closing her eyes. She remembered what her mother had told her once, when she was very little and scared. She couldn't remember what had frightened her so, perhaps it was a bad dream, but Claire recalled that her mother had been by her side in an instant calming her. Her mother had told her then what to do in times such as this. "Pray," Angeline had whispered. "Pray to God that your troubles are over, and sing to his angels. They love it when you sing to them." She had smiled softly then, and little Claire had smiled too. "Dear Lord," she began. "Thank you for all you've blessed me with. I know my mother is with you at this moment; please continue to protect her in your haven. Please, give my father strength in these hard days, especially today. It is a terribly hard day for him. And bless him with sense enough to call a doctor to his aide, for I know he is not well, and his sickness has haunted him for quite some time…"

Erik listened intently. He had hidden in the space between the walls where Claire had once found herself, some time ago. He had led her with his voice to the door where she had slithered out of his sight, and he thought, hoped, for good. But now he wasn't so sure what he thought, or how he felt. He was almost as intrigued with this girl as she was of him. He couldn't possibly understand why she had such an interest in him, and the thought of this troubled him deeply, and excited him all the same.

Erik had been wandering about his opera house when he had heard the opera door open wide, a blast of cold air enter, and then the door slammed shut again. He went to investigate the sound when he arrived in the entrance hall, lights dimmed, alone, and finding it empty. At the slight sound of tapping footsteps, he decided to follow, and once he saw Claire slip in through door to the chapel, her fingers clutching the door as it closed behind her, he sped quickly to a secure hiding place, taking the long way around.

As he listened to Claire's whispers and prayers, he couldn't help but grin. _Oh, what a poor dear, _he smirked. _Her life is so horrible isn't it? Oh, little Claire, what a sad life you lead. Your mother is dead and your father a fool. _He frowned. "At least they loved… and love you."

Claire's blood froze in her veins. "Who is there?" she asked, fearing she knew the answer. Sure, she had thought meeting the phantom would be fantastic, but now that she thought of him being near, it startled, and frightened her more than she wished it would. She glanced around, warily. "Phantom? Is it you?" There was no reply. "F-father?" she asked, hopefully, her voice trembling and weak. "Hello?"

Erik cursed himself with fury. He must have spoken aloud without even thinking. It wasn't often he had to think to himself, for alone in the depths of his island retreat, there was no need to talk softly, or in his head, for there was no one to listen, save an occasional Madame Giry, and Erik cared little if she heard his babblings. He had to think quickly. Frantically, he searched for the words inside him, but it took a moment or two to find them.

Carefully, he said, "Does he answer you prayers, Mademoiselle?" Before he gave Claire a moment to answer, he added. "My prayers have never been answered. Why would you be any different?"

Claire's mouth was wide and gaping. Erik continued. "Perhaps he does not hear me? Perhaps he does not have ears for _le infant terrible_."

"You are no such thing," Claire found herself saying, shakily. She covered her mouth with her hand. Why did she say that? "The Lord listens, Monsieur. He is a good Lord."

"Well," Erik spoke more calmly now, and his words were less rushed. "I've never been a man of God."

**A/N: Ok, I've been good, right? So please review! We're getting close to 100!**


	12. A Strange Encounter

**A/N: Hey guys! I brought you more Erik and Claire coolness…I hope you enjoy. I'm gonna be really busy the next few weeks, but hopefully I'll update sooner than later. Really do hate keeping you waiting. Thanks for al the reviews! **

**Emily Singing Reflection: You know, I never thought of that, but I guess he could have it. Good thinking. I won't say when/if Claire's father bites it, but I will say that Aubrey thinks he loves her. Maybe he does? Who knows…but he seems to think so. What do you think? Thanks for the reviews. **

**GerrysISUChick04: I don't blame myself for liking him either! Lol. Careful with that boyfriend thing- he might get jealous. Lol. Yeah, Gerry is really talented. I hate it when ppl tell me Raoul is better and that the actor should have been the Phantom, but Erik's voice is supposed to be dark and mysterious, and Gerry does that well, while Raoul is supposed to be more 'princely' and charming. Thanks for the review! **

**Camlann: You may like Aubrey now…but wait until later on…lol. I guess he's sort a likeable character…he isn't like, EVIL or anything. Hmmm…it's interesting that you ask about him turning to one of Claire's friends…very interesting…I guess you'll have to see what I have planned. Thanks for reviewing! **

**Mrs. Opera Ghost: Ummm, no, the Christine thing never happened. Lol, I don't know French, so I have no idea. I was randomly looking at French expressions online and saw this one and read the definition. It reminded me of Erik, so I decided to use it. Lol. **

**Marianne Brandon: Yeah, I have a lot of respect for Patrick even though I despise Raoul. He's a great actor and talented singer. Except 'The Alamo' was a horrible movie. Lol. **

**Chapter Twelve: A Strange Encounter **

"I am sorry you feel that way, Monsieur," Claire said, smoothly. "And I am sorry for whatever happened to you that would make you so spiteful."

Anger bubbled and brewed in Erik's heart with every word she thrust at him. He clenched his fists and his nails dug deep into his gloved palms. He could feel the tight soft flesh of the gloves on his fingertips and released, dropping his hands to his sides.

"You have no idea," he breathed, maliciously.

"Give me one, Monsieur," Claire offered, her voice sweet and kind. Erik couldn't tell if she wanted to help him, or jest at him.

Claire was not one for jests- she was serious. "Why do you lurk in the dark corners of this world?" she asked, remembering all she knew about him. She didn't know much, but she could tell that he was a bitter creature, and she wanted to find out why.

"That is business that solely concerns me," Erik snapped.

"And Madame Giry," Claire retorted. "She is a friend of yours…I know."

"What a bright young child," Erik said in a mocking tone. "Would you like a prize, little inspector?"

"Monsieur," Claire began, quietly. "I-I never appropriately thanked you…for- for rescuing me. Remember Monsieur? It was me…whom you rescued, from drowning…in the trap…that pit thing…filled with water…" Claire wasn't exactly sure what to call it. She had never seen anything like the trap, or pit, or whatever it was that she had fallen into.

"_Monsieur do not think I've forgotten,_

_The man who'd replenished my soul _

_I know it was you who did save me _

_From an end so cold." _

"_Child it was I who saved you,_

_What choice would have rested on me_

_If I had left you to die there_

_Murderer I'd be." _

"_Are you an Angel from Heaven? _

_You've given me more than my soul_

_Angel, you've given my voice back_

_How do I pay this toll?"_

Claire stopped suddenly. What was she doing? She was singing with him…again. It was an amazing feeling, she could not deny- the freedom she felt when harmonizing with this strange phantom. "Thank you," she whispered.

Her voice was beautiful, Erik thought. But it was tender, raw, unperfected. It could be more, he knew. "I hope I have not been cruel," his tone completely changed. No longer did this voice from the darkness seem to jest and be cruel, it sounded kind, and pitiful.

"I- I should not sing," Claire said, lowering her eyes.

"Why not?" Erik asked, unable to stop himself. "You've a beautiful voice."

Claire blushed. "I require training, I know…but my father forbids it. I have tried to stop, but I cannot, Monsieur…I've tried…" she felt her eyes growing moist with warm tears. Every time she sang, she remembered that she was not a singer, and that hurt her badly, so she had been trying to stop altogether; trying to forget her dream.

"You could be trained," Erik offered.

"How?" Claire wondered. "When my father forbids it?"

"Why would he do such a thing?"

"Because, Monsieur…it hurts him…ever since my mother died…"

"And does his pain and grief inflict upon you?" Erik asked.

Claire found it a rather personal question, but she answered anyway. "No. But I only wish to please him. I do wish I could sing though."

"Perhaps you should think more of your own desires."

"And what do you propose I do?" Claire retorted, rather annoyed. Who was this person who showed up out of nowhere and now was telling her what to do? "And why- why should I listen to anything you have to say? I haven't even seen your face, and yet I'm confiding in you!"

"Close your eyes," Erik replied simply.

Claire glanced around the room, seeing no one. She sat on the stone floor in silence, her heart beating. She closed her eyes. "Now sing."

"I cannot, Monsieur," said Claire, picking up the bottom of her gown and standing. "And I cannot stay here. The hour grows late." She made for the door. Turning back, she said, "goodnight, Monsieur Phantom. You will see me in the morning…I am sure."

Erik's lips did not move, and he listened intently as the door to the chapel opened and closed behind the girl. _She is lost,_ he thought, _like me._ It was a peculiar feeling that he felt at that moment, but for some odd reason that he could not explain, he suddenly felt an awkward connection to this _little spy. _He was as much intrigued with her now, as she was of him, but he wasn't about to admit that, not even to himself.

When he finally reached the little island that he called home, at the end of the black river below the Opera Populaire, he sighed deeply, his mind filling with thoughts_. I could teach her_, he thought. _To sing…she can be my voice…my face. _He wondered…He could, couldn't he? With a simple threat, he could force her father to let Claire sing, and then he could train her. But why? Why did he want to be part of this? He never wanted to be part of anything- not for many years, at least. Why would he want to help this young woman now?

That night Erik found not answers, but in his dreams, he found _her_. She was singing. Singing to him…_as if anyone would ever do that._ But her songs calmed him, and frightened him all the same. He didn't even know this girl. It didn't matter though, he thought. _She's not afraid of me- she never was. I can make her, _Erik told himself in his deep slumber. _I can make her sing, and then she will sing for me…the little spy._

The lights in her home were dimmed as Claire dropped from the carriage door to the gravel road in front of her house. "Thank you," she said, offering some coins to the driver who took them and urged his black horse forward. Claire could hear the horse's heavy hooves drop to the ground with every step he took.

She glided to her front porch and opened the door. Feeling immensely tired, she glanced upwards at the moon. It was beaming down at her. She smiled back and walked inside, shutting the door quietly behind her.

Her father was asleep, and Margaret was asleep on the couch. She had been waiting for Claire's return. She awoke suddenly when Claire walked passed. "Claire?"

She startled Claire as she got up. "Margaret," Claire sighed. "I thought you were asleep."

"I was," said the maid. "And I've been waiting for you. Your father and I were getting very concerned, Mademoiselle," she admonished. "But Monsieur Andre assured me you would be home in time."

"Margaret," Claire began. "I know my father and he knows me. Neither of you should worry if I am to go out. I will always return. I promise you that."

"It is unnatural," the maid complained. "You are a woman, and a young one. You shouldn't be out unaccompanied. It is not right."

"I am fine," Claire assured her. "I'm sorry if I worried you." And with that, she headed up the stairway to her room.

"Do you need help undressing?" Margaret called after her.

"No thank you, Margaret," Claire assured her, walking into her room and closing the door behind her.

Margaret sighed. Never before had she tended to such a queer family. Claire worried her sometimes, as did Andre, but she remembered they were from England. _Perhaps things are different in England_, she told herself.

Claire's eyes closed the moment her head hit the soft pillow on her bed, but she found little sleep that night. She could not forget what had just happened to her. She had spoken, _sung_ to the Phantom of the Opera, and he had sung back. It was strange, she thought, that his tone had changed so much from once being cruel and almost frightening, to gentle and pitiful. At that moment, Claire could not comprehend what was to come next for her and the Opera Ghost.

**A/N: Please review! Thanks. **


	13. The Truth

**A/N: Wow. It's been a while. Sorry about that guys. I've been really busy! I don't have time to reply to reviews, but hopefully you'll like this next chapter. Please remember to review!**

**Chapter Thirteen: The Truth **

Erik lifted the light plaster into the light of the candlelight, eyeing it thoughtfully. A river of golden sheen splashed across its surface. For a minute he actually thought it beautiful. _Garish,_ he thought, casting the mask to the floor angrily. _What am I getting myself into?_

He turned to look out upon the lake, a vast water, cool, calm, and dark. It had been hours since he had made his decision. _She will sing for me… _

"Erik," the Phantom turned at the sound of his name. Madame Giry had come in from a secret entrance that only she and the Opera Ghost knew of. She was carrying a large tray. Erik glanced at its contents. A soft, pale green apple dappled with lighter green splotches, he noticed, a slice of bread, and a glass of milk.

Madame Giry set his breakfast tray upon his desk, but Erik did not move. He stayed where he was, looking out over the lake, deep in thought.

Madame Giry sighed. "Eat Erik. You must eat."

Erik stuck up his nose and glared at the glass of milk. "Water," he said calmly. "I asked that you serve me water instead of milk."

"Erik," Madame Giry began to protest. "It will give you strength."

"Oh, I have strength," Erik said sarcastically. "It's beauty I want. Milk clogs the throat, Madame, you know that as well as I."

Madame Giry crossed her arms over her chest with a sigh. "You can drink, or you cannot," she said simply. "I am going to teach my girls."

Suddenly Erik changed the subject, stopping Madame Giry before she could leave him. "Have rehearsals begun?"

"Yes, Erik."

"Good," he didn't smile.

Madame Giry bowed her head slightly. "I'll be back in the afternoon Erik." And with that, she left him there alone. As she headed for the secret door, she noticed the golden mask on the floor but said nothing of it to Erik.

Claire held her father's arm as they walked across the stage. All four eyes were fixed upon the dancers as they rehearsed and Madame Giry barked instructions to them.

"Aren't they beautiful Father?" asked Claire, butterflies drifting in her stomach. She couldn't help but sense she was being watched by someone she could not see. It was a strange feeling, and she hadn't quite grown accustomed to it yet.

"They certainly are," Andre agreed, eyeing the young girls as they leapt across the stage as one.

"Madame Giry is an excellent teacher- don't you think?" asked Claire.

"Oh yes," her father agreed quite simply.

Claire eyed the woman suspiciously, as if warning her not to stir up any trouble or her or her father, and when Madame Giry caught her eye, she simply nodded a quiet greeting and ignored her otherwise.

Lost in his own silence, Andre frowned with recollection. The words of his brother, and doctor kept ringing in his mind: "Get her out of the house, Andre. No one seems to want to believe me, but consumption is contagious. At least, it's a theory of mine. I've seen so many deaths, Andre. I'm sorry about Claire." Andre had shrugged off the warning, not wanting to believe it at all. "Think of your wife, Andre…Think of your daughter."

"C-Claire," the man stuttered.

Claire glanced at her father; he looked strangely nervous to her. "What is it?"

Andre glanced down at his boots as if they were extraordinarily fascinating and he just couldn't possibly look away from them. "Never you mind." Claire furrowed her brow. "I-I can't remember now…what I was going to say. Forget it."

"Father," Claire stopped walking. "What's wrong?"

She could see tears forming in his eyes. He glanced around him. There were people everywhere. "Come with me first," he ordered, leading her backstage where it was much more quiet and secluded. When they were finally alone, he licked his lips and began. He licked his lips, nervously.

"I-I didn't want to say this here- now, but I…I…If I don't do this now, I never will."

"What is it? What's wrong?"

"Claire, daughter," Claire could tell he was nervous. "You know that I am ill…"

_Oh no…_thought Claire.

"…Well, I think it would be best for us to be spending less time together."

"What?" Claire didn't understand at all.

"I'm sick, Claire," Andre forced the words out of him, shoving them out with all the force he could muster. "I'm not well, and if you stay with me, there is a chance you may get sick too."

"How-?"

"You're uncle thinks so. He told me."

"When?"

"Long ago, Claire. When does not matter." He sighed. "I don't want you living with me anymore, Claire."

"Why are you telling me this now?" Claire asked, taken aback.

"I was reminded of it," Andre answered coldly. "Last night, I gave it a good hard thought. I just haven't been able to tell you."

"How sick are you?"

"I don't know," Andre said, regretfully. "I'm so sorry Claire." He could see her eyes filling with tears.

"But I prayed for you!" she shouted, not to anyone in particular. "This can't be happening!"

"Claire!" Andre grabbed her by the shoulders. "Quiet! No one is to know of this- do you understand?" She nodded, quietly. "Now hush, child. "It is not as serious as I may have led you to believe. I'm sorry if I worried you."

"W-where will I go?"

"For now," he began, shakily. "I'm sure you can be boarded here, in the opera dormitories. I-I'll speak to Madame Giry of it right now." He spun on his heels.

"Wait…" Claire called after him. "I'm scared."

**A/N: Review now! **


	14. Nicolette

**A/N: You didn't think I'd left you, did you? Well, I hope not, but I do admit, it has been a while. I do apologize, but remember, I promised I wouldn't stop this story until it is really over, and I'm very good at keeping promises. I just need to take breaks some times because I've been so busy. I really am sorry, but hopefully since summer's coming updates should be quicker too. Thanks for being loyal readers! And please review!**

**Chapter Fourteen: Nicolette **

Madame Giry walked swiftly, almost gliding, as if moving her feet never troubled her. Claire had to lengthen her steps to keep up. With every step she took, Madame Giry left a slight imprint of sound as her soft ballet slippers drummed delicately upon the carpeted floor. Claire swallowed hard as her guide came to a halt at the foot of a certain door labeled with ink, room number _24._

There were several labeled doors on either side, but Mme. Giry seemed content opening one, just one…Claire's.

"This is where you will sleep," she said smoothly, turning the knob, and cracking the door open.

Claire peeked inside and with another simple push, the door opened. Mme. Giry walked inside first, at a much slower pace, and Claire soon followed. The young woman's heart nearly dropped, and then she suddenly realized how selfishly vain she was. Her first thought upon entering her room was in fact a vain one: _She can't expect me to live here. I am no orphan to live in these conditions! _She bit her lip with embarrassment and continued to stare, wide-eyed at her new quarters.

_Two beds, I must not be sleeping here alone. _A single and solitary gaslight lit the side of one wall, the wall against the two beds, well, more like cots actually, and there was a small table or desk in one corner. There were no windows, no sofas or pianos, or a breakfast table and chairs. But there was a small mirror that sat on the desk and was propped up against the wall. _This is where I shall live, _Claire thought, biting harder into her lip and then letting go for the pain was getting to her. _But it will_ not _be my home._

For the first time, Claire noticed a little girl sitting on the floor behind the bed farthest from her. It surprised Claire that she had noticed the girl, but then again, she was small, and practically impossible to see behind the cot.

"Nicolette," Madame Giry called to her.

The little girl stood, slowly, and began to walk over to Claire, as if she were being punished. "Hello," Claire tried to sound warm and friendly.

For the first time, Nicolette looked into Claire's eyes, but only for a fleeting moment. "This is my niece, Nicolette. Her parents could not afford to keep her, and unlike some folk in Paris, they refused to sell their little girl to the highest paying gentleman." Madame Giry frowned as she spoke, and her words were bitter, as if she had memories of a similar experience. She sighed. "So I took her in."

"That was kind of you," Claire complimented quietly, not completely sure of what to say. Then she turned to the petite brown haired child. She could only have been eight or nine. A forced smile broke upon her lips. "It's nice to make your acquaintance, Nicolette."

Nicolette turned to her aunt, as if for permission to speak and when Mme. Giry gave her a slight nod, she dropped her head and gave a polite curtsy as a kind greeting. "And the same of you," she half-whispered.

"Aunt," she asked of Madame Giry. "May I resume stretching, please?" Madame Giry cast a fleeting glance toward Claire as if to explain how she sympathized for the girl, and then nodded her head, telling her niece that she could, indeed, resume with her stretching.

"Claire will only be here for a little while, Nicolette," she assured the little girl as she disappeared again behind the cot. "She will be your guest here until her father is well enough to take care of her. I know you will make her feel welcome, Nicolette." Nicolette nodded, but Claire could hardly tell.

She gripped her bags tightly and looked to Madame Giry like a sad, frightened puppy one would catch a glimpse of in the streets of Paris.

"Well, I must be off, girls. Dinner is in an hour," Mme. Giry added. "You will come to the dining hall for that, Claire. Nicolette will show you the way."

She left at once, closing the door behind her. _Well, this is awkward..._

Claire stepped forward and found herself at the foot of her cot. She quickly lifted her two bags onto her new bed and began to silently unpack.

"My parents didn't want me either," a small voice said all of a sudden.

Claire stopped her work to gaze at the girl, first with anger, then with pity, though she wasn't sure who it was for. She almost felt as though she would cry, then she reminded herself that everything would be all right, just as her father had promised when she had left home earlier that day.

"I don't think that's why we're here," Claire said, walking away from her cot and beginning to approach Nicolette, who was still stretching behind hers. The little girl's stout legs were stretched out in front of her and her arms reached out to grasp her wiggling toes. When she spoke, Claire could see a missing tooth on the top row of her teeth, clarifying her age once more. _Such an innocent age for most…_Claire recollected. _It's a shame for those who lose it so fast._

"How long have you been here?" Claire hated the silence.

"Two months," the girl replied, keeping her eyes averted. Her fingers wiggled as she reached and reached further towards her toes, but she could never quite grasp them. "Mother says this isn't much better than living on the streets for men, but Daddy says it's better, even though I won't make money till I'm older."

"I'm sure your parents would rather have you home," Claire offered, taking a seat on the cold, damp floor beside her.

Acting as if Claire had invaded her personal space, Nicolette recoiled, nestling her legs into her chest. She glanced at Claire, almost giving her a terrified look, and then glanced down again.

"I'm a nice person," Claire said immediately, somewhat offended. The little girl refused to reply. "You're aunt is kind as well, to have taken you in." Still no reply. "I'm looking forward to dinner. I am so hungry at the moment. Can I sit next to you at the table?" she added with a smile.

Nicolette instantly turned her head, and Claire felt sad to see that the girl was clearly surprised. She still said nothing however. Claire pursed her lips, uncomfortably. "I know what it feels like to be alone," she said, comfortingly, hoping not to offend her new roommate.

As though she were a viper, Nicolette shouted back with venom spraying from her tongue. "I'm never alone!"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Claire stood, uncomfortable once again. "I didn't mean-"

"He's always with me," Nicolette muttered so quietly that Claire did not hear her. "He is my friend…I don't need you."

**A/N: Hmmm, Nicolette's kinda weird…I wonder why she is so mysterious? And who is this, _he?_ You will find out I guess…please review and let me know that ppl are still reading my story! Thanks! **


	15. Blind Lessons

**A/N: Well, it's only been two months…sorry guys! I really don't have much of an excuse besides that fact that I've been busy, brain-dead, and my beta got mad at me and wouldn't read anything for a while…then the chapter got lost and…Well, here it is now so there. Please don't kill me! I have the next two chappies done already, they just have to be read and edited. Thanks! **

**Vagrant Candy: I'll see what I can do about having Christine making a little guest appearance, but I originally was pretending she never existed. But I'll try my best. J **

**Erik's Girlfriend: Lol, don't worry. Claire's like…twenty-one or something, lol. So Erik's okay… **

**Mrs. Opera Ghost: Sorry about the lack of Erik in the last chapter. The next two chapters should kinda make up for it. The story is progressing… **

**Emily Singing Reflection: Yes, Nicolette is very interesting indeed, lol. She should play an interesting part. **

**Surf with Music: Thanks for reading, AND reviewing. I really appreciate it. **

**BrokenAngel858: LOL! I love Nightmare on Elm Street, and your idea. That was great. Thanks for the review. **

**Immok: Well, we'll see. She will have a part to play. **

**Marianne Brandon: Sorry this took so long…I feel really bad, but yeah. There will be more Erik and Christine interaction for sure…tehehe…and Aubrey's coming up soon! **

**Camlann: I must have forgotten to mention her age. Nicolette is like, 9 or 10…maybe I'll mention in later if I forgot. Woops, lol. **

**Chapter Fifteen: Blind Lessons **

Claire hummed quietly to herself through the dank hallways of the dormitory building. Her stomach was full from dinner, and a soft smile warmed her lips; she was content with the evening.

She was able to find her friends and sit with them at the long, grey dining table in the dining room. The room had been a large, airy one, sprinkled with dust and a handful of cobwebs that clung to the cold walls.

There were nearly fifty girls that lived in the dormitories of the opera house, and, to Claire's surprise, she found that most of them were orphans. Nicolette sat at the end of the table, nearest to the door, where she said little, and hardly touched her roasted pork.

Now, Claire could hear the little girl's footsteps behind her. She turned around to see Nicolette pacing behind her, looking down at the floor with every step. Claire opened her mouth to speak, but decided against it. Perhaps the girl wanted to be left alone?

As soon as the two girls found their room, they began to undress and change into their night gowns for the evening. Claire actually missed Margaret helping her prepare for the night. She missed her father's good night wishes and kiss as well. She sighed. Claire missed a lot of things.

It was Nicolette who crawled into bed first, tucking herself so far into her sheets that Claire could only see the freckled tip of her nose and higher. "Can you turn out the lights?" the little girl asked, her words muffled under the covers.

"Of course," Claire said as she glided toward the oil lamp and pinched the tiny knob with her fingers, turning it down towards the floor, and releasing all light from the room. "Goodnight," she whispered as she crawled into her own cot. There was no reply from the little girl nearby, but Claire thought she heard another noise.

Singing.

That's what it was. After closing her heavy eyelids, Claire was almost forced to open them again. She could still hear it, but she could see nothing in the dim and black lighted room. _Who's there?_ She asked in her mind. It wasn't Nicolette, she thought; the little girl's voice would have been clearer, for she was only feet away. No, this voice was muffled, as if from far away- and it belonged to a man.

It was him.

Claire knew it almost immediately. Not only did the voice have that certain, mystifying quality to it, but Claire recognized it as well. It was deep, calming, sincere…_What is he doing?_ Claire asked herself. Why was this man singing now? Did he want her to hear him?

The music stopped, and Claire turned in her bed. She wanted to hear more, but couldn't tell which direction the soft melodies had been emanating from- through the wall, no doubt, but where?

"Claire…" This time the voice seemed closer. "Come to me…"

Claire's eyes widened, and her breathing increased. Looking to her right, she saw the tiny silhouette that was Nicolette's body and head. Claire licked her lips and sat up. She stepped lightly out of bed, so as not to wake her room mate.

"Why is he calling to you?" a little voice asked.

Claire spun around to see two white eyes peering at her through the darkness. "I don't know," Claire answered in an almost inaudible whisper.

"Are you frightened?" Nicolette asked, bewildered.

Claire thought for a moment, deeply considering this question. Was she frightened? "No," she answered boldly.

"Don't be…just go to him," Nicolette suggested. "He wants you."

"You…you know?"

Nicolette didn't answer this time. She rolled over, her sheets rustling with every turn, and faced the other way. "Goodnight then," Claire whispered softly before exiting the room.

She nearly flew down the hallway, searching for the path that she knew would lead to the chapel. After several minutes of swiftly searching, she found it. After entering, she looked around the room for any sign that she was not alone. "Phantom?"

"I am here," came the icy-toned reply.

"Why do you hide?"

"You are here to hear me, child, not to see me."

Claire swallowed, and took a deep breath. "It is late, Monsieur…I should be asleep, in my bed."

"We will have no time. We have now."

"And tomorrow?" She knew exactly what he wanted. They had spoken before of voice training, and for some reason, Claire knew that's why she here. She was bewildered, to an extent, but more excited than anything.

"We have tomorrow night."

"And…" Claire began. "Every night, will we be meeting like this?"

"Yes."

And so it was. Every night henceforth Claire would leave her room after making sure that she wouldn't be missed or seen by anyone, and meet with her phantom, her singing mentor.

Hours grew into nights, nights into weeks, and by the time the second month of their meeting had passed; both Claire and Erik had lost count of their lessons, and the hours they spent together. Sessions were blended together, as were their voices as they made music together every night.

Erik made it clear that he wanted no questions to be asked about him, and that Claire wasn't to mention him, or their lessons to anyone. Claire asked no further questions, and told no one what they were doing. They just sang, night after night, and for the first time in her life, Claire felt free.

Even her father was noticing her gaiety on their daily meetings at the opera house. The majority of the time, Andre spent locked up in his office, swimming in a bounty of paperwork and drowned in a sea of coughs and grunts.

And as the nights passed on, so did the days, and Claire Bonamy spent every day of the week-save Sunday which was reserved for church- practicing her ballet with Madame Giry.

"Farwell for the night, Phantom," Claire bid one night when their meeting was complete. "I'll dream of songs tonight." She smiled casually as she exited the chapel.

_Hmmm,_ cold grey eyes watched with curiosity as the girl in the pale night gown skipped up the steps from the chapel to the dormitories. _A little night owl, have we?_ Joseph Buquet's grin was sly and his eyes twinkled cruelly. _What have we here?_ _But I heard two voices… _

Once he made certain that the girl was gone, he entered the chapel, closing the door quietly behind him. He glanced around the room suspiciously. It was dark, there was little light, save the ethereal glow of the moon that shown dimly through the stained glass window in the far side of the chapel. "Who is here?" he asked aloud, waiting for an answer. He had waited long enough, and wondered why, even though he'd heard two voices singing that night, in the chapel, only one person left the room. "You," he grumbled coldly. "Is it the opera ghost I heard?"

Silence.

**A/N: Please review you guys! And I'll update sooner! **

**-Modesty **


	16. Bad News

**A/N: Yes! I'm updating sort of on time this time…woohoo! Hopefully my next update will be a week or so. I'm happy that I got some reviews last update, but I'm sad because I lost so many reviewers! Please, if you're reading this, review because it will make me happier. Thanks. **

**Surf with Music: Yes, that's true. And the interaction will begin shortly. I'm excited! **

**Emily Singing Reflection: Thanks…I don't think I'm really that good, but thanks anyway. Just practice I guess…**

**Immokk: He must hold more than that to keep alive, lol. **

**BrokenAngel858: Lol, yeah, she is kinda creepy. **

**Vagrant Candy: Yes, I am pretending that Firmin never existed. But, I did steal his first name (I think) for Andre Bonamy, just to add in a little of the movie. **

**Chapter Sixteen: Bad News **

It was a warm spring day in April when Andre received the letter. He was sitting in his office, looking over a script for another opera, when he heard a knock at his office door, which he always kept closed while at work.

He slowly rose to his feet and walked to the door. Upon opening it, he stood face to face with a cross looking Madame Giry. "Madame, bonjour," he said, in a false- friendly tone.

Madame Giry scowled. She and Andre Bonamy had never completely gotten along. Andre glanced down at the crinkled envelope in her open palm. It had the blood red skeleton seal of the Opera Ghost.

"What does he want now?" Andre questioned irritably.

"You have not paid him, have you, Monsieur?" was the woman's reply. She was wearing a dark as night black dress, and her blonde hair was pulled back in a tight bun.

"Andre wet his lips with anger and shook his head. "And I won't," he added. "Not this time. I will go bankrupt."

"We surely are not that poor," Mme. Giry offered, in an unpleasant tone.

"Well, if I must pay him again, we most certainly will be; have no doubt of _that_, Madame."

"Then perhaps we need a new star," Madame Giry offered, calmly. "Maybe then we shall acquire a full house?"

Andre glared at her suspiciously. "What do you mean?"

"It was a suggestion, Monsieur; do not take it to heart."

"Well, I wasn't about to." Madame Giry handed the letter to her manager, and he reluctantly took hold of it. "Thank you for your time," he said, shutting the door in her face.

Madame Giry let out a soft sigh. "Will you ever learn, Monsieur?"

Andre Bonamy threw the letter carelessly on his desk and sat down again, frowning. He glanced at the envelope and then turned away. "This is ridiculous," he muttered, angrily.

"Oh, I assure you, Monsieur," a deep voice boomed from behind. Andre turned around quickly, but saw no one. "I have my reasons."

Andre wet his lips with nervousness now. "What if I don't have the money?"

"I'm sure you will find a way," the voice said.

"If you were any braver than you'd like me to think, you'd show yourself," Andre scoffed.

"Joseph, is that you, playing tricks?" Andre speculated. "Well, it isn't funny."

"Monsieur Bonamy," Erik called. "I will lower my payments for this month only…if you are certain that you cannot pay me."

"Ha!" Andre spurted. "I shall not pay you at all, Monsieur! I am sick of this, and I am sick of you, and paying tribute to a demon I cannot even see. If you hide, and take money that is not yours, you are a common thief and criminal, and I will not have one of those in my theatre. This nonsense has gone on too long!"

"What will you do?" Erik asked carelessly.

"I'll leave that up to the authorities," Andre snapped. "Where are you?"

"In your mind, Monsieur," Erik answered. "They will never find me."

"We will find a way," Andre argued. "We will ask questions…and make arrests if we have to!"

"Will you?" Erik was playing with him now, Andre realized. He didn't sound worried or concerned at all, and his voice tone was playful.

"Oh, I will!" Andre shot up out of his seat with anger. "And it will be you who pays me Monsieur, not the other way around."

"And what will Claire do with me gone?"

Andre's heart skipped a beat. _What did he just say? Claire?_ "It's not possible," he mumbled. "What does she have to do with this?"

Erik realized that he needed to keep quiet. The game had started, the pieces set. Now he just needed to watch the game from afar, and keep quiet. "Ask her," he said quietly.

Andre's mouth hung loosely and he scowled.

Erik frowned as he paced back to his lair. He had spoken too soon, and said too much. He'd never done this before. He'd spent nearly his entire life cooling his emotions, and acting calmly towards his enemies, but something had snapped in him that day, something had made him blurt out regrettable words.

He didn't know what it was. _Should I act kindly to Andre?_ He asked himself, unsure. _He is Claire's father…but_…But Erik had never liked Andre, and he didn't think he ever could.

There was something about that man that made Erik's blood bubble in his veins, that made him scowl and curse. The way Claire spoke of him, she loved her father, but at the same time, they seemed so distant. In part, Erik wanted to punish him for the way he treated Claire, and the way he treated the Opera Ghost.

The last manager would at least pay Erik, and showed respect. Andre hated the Phantom of the Opera, and Erik knew it. Andre was stubborn, and so was the Opera Ghost. "Perhaps we will not be the greatest of allies," Erik whispered to himself.

**A/N: Please review! Thanks. Oh, and sorry this is kinda boring and short…the next chappie should be better, lol. **


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